


John Hamish Watson, Jr.

by chemical_sentiment (tothewillofthepeople)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acting-Dad Sherlock, Angst, Character Death, Growing Up, Other, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/chemical_sentiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock? Why d'you call me Hamish? It's not my first name."</p><p>John and Mary are murdered. Sherlock is left to raise their son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What the Good Doctor Didn't Know

**Author's Note:**

> Allowing some time for Hamish to grow up- he's about four when this story starts.

"I didn't know it was like this."

Mycroft flinched, brought unusually low by the desolation of his brother. "I did warn you to not get attached," he attempts, but even his normally airy tone was thick with sadness.

Sherlock raised his head, giving his brother a bloodshot stare. "Don't, Mycroft," he hissed. "Don't you dare."

He leaned back on the couch ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it up even further, adding a touch of insanity to his red eyes and painfully white skin.

There was a long silence in 221B. Nothing broke it. No one rustled a newspaper or made tea or yelled about body parts in the fridge. Even Mycroft noticed the difference, and he, of course, was not the one who had to live there. He stroked the side of his armchair slowly.

"Where is he?" Mycroft finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft leaned forward. "Your caustic indifference in this matter is not acceptable, Sherlock. Where is he?" His voice vibrated with anger.

"Downstairs," Sherlock snapped back. He dropped sideways suddenly and twisted so that all Mycroft could see of him was his back, heaving slightly as the detective curled up around one of the couch cushions.

"Stop being such a child."

"I think it's justified at the moment."

Mycroft exhaled, his grip tightening on his umbrella. "Sherlock-"

"I'M FEELING, MYCROFT," Sherlock yelled, twisting back around and snarling at his brother. "I'M FEELING EMOTION AND I CAN'T HANDLE IT RIGHT NOW SO IF YOU WOULD PLEASE LEAVE. ME. ALONE."

Mycroft allowed his brother one long moment of silence in which they stared at each other, Sherlock panting, Mycroft taking in his brothers wide eyes and trembling hands.

"Ah." Mycroft's voice was sad and slow. "Was the good doctor aware of the depth of your feelings for him?"

Sherlock whimpered and collapsed, falling sideways, still facing his brother. "No," he gasped out. "No, no, never, no." He swallowed, and his eyes darted. Mycroft swallowed the pangs of sadness, the stabs of revulsion. "I couldn't- I couldn't."

There was another long silence. Sherlock closed his eyes and Mycroft looked away, distracting himself with the interior of the flat. Broken glass and shards of bone on the floor- Sherlock had thrown the skull at the mirror. Obvious. Signs of fresh ashes in the fireplace- what could he have been burning? Pictures? Letters? No- there was a scrap of unburned fabric caught in the grate. Clothes then. The scrap was light brown, thick, some type of wool, had probably come from a jumper- ah. Mycroft looked away.

Bottles and tubes of experiments on the table. Hadn't been touched in over a week- no, two weeks. The accident had been three days ago- something must have been distracting Sherlock up to that time, some crime, some clue, something to keep him busy-

"I can't look at him."

Mycroft looked at his brother. Sherlock was flat on his back now, staring at the ceiling. His hands were folded across his chest. Mycroft noted the position, frowned at it's connotations, tried to focus on his brother's words. "Why not?"

"He looks like John. Same eyes, same smile. Mary's nose. John's hair. Walks like his father. Too young for the voice to have settled into anything but it'll get deeper. His face will settle, too- it's hard enough for me now but as he grows up it'll get worse." Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, eyes hard. "His name is John. I can't see him."

Mycroft leaned forward. "But who else would you like to raise him?"

Sherlock bolted into a sitting position. "NO ONE," he screamed in his brother's face. "YOU THINK I WOULD TRUST THE RAISING OF HIS SON TO ANYONE BUT-" he stopped suddenly.

Mycroft was grim. "Exactly."

"I am simultaneously the best and worst person for this," Sherlock hissed. "I knew his father, his mother. I can protect him, I can teach him. No one else can do these things for the boy." Here he took in a long, shuddering breath. "But I cannot raise him. I cannot care for his sickness, I cannot ease his fears. I will put him constantly in danger and I will be forever, forever, reminded of everything that his father was, everything that is now gone, everything that I could not and cannot have." He dropped, letting his head fall into his hands.

Mycroft almost reached out to him. "John and Mary picked you," he murmured. "I think you should trust them, and yourself, in this."

"That sounds almost like sentiment."

"It is."

Sherlock looked up.

"This is a delicate matter," Mycroft continued. "I cared for the good doctor and his wife, and I can even tolerate the son on a good day. You, however, Sherlock, valued them above nearly everyone you know." Sherlock's eyes looked wet. "Your feelings for them ran deeper than even you realized because you are so used to suppressing them." Mycroft sighed. "And maybe that's my fault."

Sherlock looked at him incredulously.

"I told you once that caring is not an advantage," Mycroft went on. "I still believe that. But as you cannot help but care in this situation I suggest you do the best you can."

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "You were in love with John." Sherlock flinched. "You loved him. You love him. You also loved Mary, and you love the boy. That cannot be helped. It's dangerous, it's illogical. But John Hamish Watson, Jr. is now under your care, and the love you feel for his family will help you in that."

"You're telling me to love," Sherlock whispered. His head weaved back and forth, as though trying to track the tangled knots of his brother's logic. "This goes against everything you've told me before."

"Because you went against what I told you." Mycroft was firm. "You loved. So now that the damage has been done, you just have to keep moving forward. Take care of the boy, Sherlock. Care for him. He needs you. You'll be able to protect him."

"I couldn't protect his father." It sounded like a sob.

"Guilt and regret will get you nowhere. Maybe the boy is your redemption."

"I don't want redemption. I want John."

There was silence once more, and Mycroft could feel the presence of the dead doctor in the room. No wonder Sherlock was out of his mind, there were traces of him everywhere. Pictures. A forgotten coat. Unburned jumpers. A tea kettle. A gun.

John had moved out years ago. Mycroft didn't pretend to not know why Sherlock had kept his things.

"If I could bring back your doctor I would," Mycroft said finally. "I would do anything in the world for him to be here now. But the fact remains that I can't. I can't, Sherlock, and for that I'm truly sorry. But you need to take care of the boy. He needs you." Mycroft stood up. "And I think you need him."

Sherlock stared around the flat, unseeing.

Mycroft walked over to the couch and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You should consider perhaps calling him Hamish, instead of John," he said.


	2. Becoming Hamish Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hasn't seen Hamish since before the accident. Hamish isn't sure why his father hasn't come home.

Mrs. Hudson was nice and lovely and her flat always had crisps and biscuits in it, which is why John Jr. liked it so much. She would let him sit in front of the telly and sometimes bring him a snack and he always had drawing paper and a wide variety of pencils and pens.

This time was different though. She had come to fetch him from his home, which was unusual, and she was letting him eat all he wanted, and he had been here for days and days. John Jr. was bored. He hadn't even been allowed to go up and see Uncle Sherlock, even though he could hear shouting and movement and the violin sometimes.

The worst part, though, was that Mrs. Hudson was always crying, and John Jr. didn't know how to cheer her up.

He had been here for absolute ages. Something had happened, he knew; something had happened to Mum and Dad and they couldn't come get him. It had happened before; sometimes Dad and Sherlock would disappear and Mum would sit up late at night and let him sit up with her.

This time was different. Longer, for one, and there was no Mum. John Jr. was concerned, but not afraid. Uncle Sherlock was right upstairs, so Dad couldn't be too far away, right?

Mrs. Hudson blew her nose. It was enough to shock John Jr. into looking away from the telly at her. She was watching him with watery eyes.

"You look so much like you father, Johnny," she sniffed.

John Jr. watched her solemnly. "Why does that make you cry?" He asked.

She sighed and looked away, playing with her handkerchief. "I don't quite know how to explain it, dearie. You're father's gone away."

John Jr. sighed. "I know that," he said, "but why hasn't he taken Uncle Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson hiccuped slightly. "It's not like a case, sweetheart," she tried to say. "It's different this time. Your Father and Mother have gone away."

John Jr. frowned. His stomach sort of ached and he didn't know why- whenever he thought about his dad it hurt worse. Fear? Sadness? Uncle Sherlock always said that emotions were dumb and that John Jr. should ignore them. But Uncle Sherlock got mad a lot and sometimes sad when he looked at John Jr. so he didn't know what to think.

Mrs. Hudson stood unsteadily. "Oh, this hip," she muttered. "I need an herbal soother, you stay right here, dear."

He could hear her sniff as she went into the kitchen.

The door to the flat opened suddenly and John Jr. leapt up. He hadn't heard any footsteps! Bt he relaxed at the thin forms filling the doorway- it was just his uncles. They never made footstep noises.

"Uncle Sherlock! Uncle Mycroft!" He yelled out, running over to them. Relief swept through him. Nothing could be bad if his uncles were here.

But something was wrong with them, too. John Jr. stopped short and stared.

Uncle Sherlock had taken a step back when he'd run at them and was staring into the room above his head. Uncle Mycroft was looking at him, but his eyes sort of looked like Mrs. Hudson's did when she made those sniffling noises.

"Mycroft," Uncle Sherlock said, and he sounded like he was choking.

Uncle Mycroft swept forward and picked up John Jr., who squeaked in surprise. He was carried across the room and dumped unceremoniously in an armchair.

When John Jr. looked up again, Uncle Sherlock was sweeping into the kitchen, and Uncle Mycroft was sitting on the sofa opposite him.

John Jr. stared at him.

Uncle Mycroft stared back.

"Sit up, child," he said, and his voice was soft and low.

John Jr. swung his feet around in the chair and straightened his spine as best he could.

"Do you know why you are here?"

John Jr. narrowed his eyes. Uncle Mycroft was leaning forward slightly and had both hands on his umbrella. His eyes were red, which was confusing. Uncle Mycroft never got red eyes the way everyone else did.

"Mrs. Hudson said Mum and Dad have gone away," John Jr. answered.

Mycroft sighed slightly. "Both of your parents have passed on." He said slowly.

John Jr. fidgeted. "What does that mean?" 

"They're dead." Uncle Mycroft's face looked very grey and his eyes were really very red. John Jr. felt cold and somber inside. He twisted his head, trying to see into the kitchen. "It that why everyone's eyes are red?"

Mycroft's face changed swiftly, flashing through several different emotions that John Jr. couldn't make out once he turned back around.

His stomach was hurting terribly. "What's wrong with Uncle Sherlock?" John Jr. whispered. Why were Uncle Mycroft's eyes so red? Where were Mum and Dad?

Mycroft pressed his lips together slightly. "I know you don't quite understand what has happened here, or what it means. Your mother and father are both dead and they were both very dear to Sherlock. He loved them both. He's sad now, to put it in simple terms."

John Jr. frowned. "Uncle Sherlock told me dead people don't come back," he said. "Mum and Dad aren't going to come back?"

Mycroft sighed. "That is correct. You'll be staying with Sherlock."

"But he wouldn't look at me."

Mycroft's eyes were very red. John Jr. put a hand on his stomach; it felt worse than before. He wanted Dad to come back, why wasn't he going to come back?

"Come here."

John Jr. looked up in surprise- Uncle Mycroft didn't like being touched. But he scrambled down off the armchair anyway and went to his uncle.

Mycroft took the boy's face in both hands, leaning in closely to him. "This is beyond my control, and your control, and even Sherlock's control," he said slowly. "You need to listen to me now. This is important. Do you understand?"

John Jr. nodded.

Mycroft leaned forward and spoke quietly in his ear.

***

Mrs. Hudson fussed and bobbed around but Sherlock remained unmoving, cold, in the center of her kitchen.

"Do you want some tea?" She fluttered.

"No. I only came down to get... to get Hamish."

Mrs. Hudson stopped in front of him and put a hand on his cheek. "Oh dear, you're going to call him Hamish? Sherlock, you know..."

"Hamish," he said coldly. "His name will be Hamish Holmes."

There was a long moment of silence.

"You can't completely erase the past, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said quietly. "At least let him keep his last name."

Something in Sherlock seemed to break. "I can't."

"It's important, Sherlock."

He breathed deeply and carefully. The sunlight streamed through the window; an unusually bright day. He could hear footsteps in the other room. It was a beautiful day and Sherlock felt like he had a thick blackness in between his lungs. What would John have wanted? What would Mary have wanted?

"Watson-Holmes, then. His name will be Hamish Watson-Holmes."


	3. Stick to the Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b doesn't feel like home to Sherlock or Hamish, but they do the best they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Hamish go home for the first time.

Somewhere in between being hugged by a crying Mrs. Hudson and yelled at my Mycroft and storming up the stairs and very nearly, nearly throwing his violin out the window, Sherlock became aware that he was being trailed.

By a four-year-old.

Named John.

He stopped short in the middle of the living room, arms above his head, partway through chucking the violin, staring at the boy. And the boy stared back.

There was a long silence.

"Uncle Sherlock?" Oh dear god, the boy's voice was quivering. Emotion, almost certainly. Sadness? Fear? How could he tell? "What are you doing?"

Sherlock brought his arms down swiftly and cradled the violin. "Nothing," he said shortly. "Just...cleaning up."

The boy was sitting in John's armchair. He was too short, too small; his feet didn't touch the ground. He looked small and insubstantial. 

John should have been there. That was John's chair.

Sherlock whipped around. "Distractions, distractions, I need distractions..." he muttered fretfully. He spun in circles (the boy stared at him) and tried to ignore the trashed state of the flat (glass shards and fragments of bone everywhere, what would John have thought?) searching desperately for something to capture his attention (a gun on the table, fabric in the fireplace, pictures of John and Mary, why was this all still here?) with the violin still in his hands (hadn't played in weeks; his calluses had to be nearly gone) trying with all of his might to not think, to not think, to not THINK.

"We could play a game?"

Sherlock stopped dead. The boy was still sitting in the chair.

"What did you say?" Sherlock whispered.

The boy shrugged. "Sometimes Dad gets sad and wants a distraction," he said simply. "We always play Cluedo." Present tense.

It was like Sherlock had small splinters of glass in his throat. He spun and stared at the wall and- yes. Still there. A small mark, a small scar in the wall where a Cluedo board had once been pinned to it with a knife. _"It's not possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock."_

"It's the only possible explanation," Sherlock whispered.

_"It's not in the rules."_

"WELL THEN THE RULES ARE WRONG!"

The boy jumped. "What rules?" He asked. His eyes were narrowed.

Sherlock stared at him. Hearing voices. _Bit not good, Sherlock._

"Nothing. Let's play Cluedo."

***

The boy was squinting at the board. Sherlock tapped his fingers quickly on his knee, watching him carefully, reading his expression like the open pages of a book. The boy was stumped, that was obvious- knitted eyebrows, narrowed eyes, small pout- and Sherlock was resisting the temptation to tell him to think, think, the answer was right under his nose!

The boy glanced at his cards. "You did something wrong."

Sherlock's breath huffed out. "No I didn't. What are you talking about?"

The boy leaned forward, waving his cards in front of Sherlock's nose. "You miscounted. There are two suspects, there have to be- two people that did the murder."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He had gotten it! "Why does that mean I counted wrong?" He asked.

The boy frowned down at the board. "Because you're supposed to only have one murderer."

Sherlock leaned forward. "But if there were actually two murderers and I only looked for one, what would happen?"

The boy looked up. They were sitting on the floor in the middle of the flat, away from all the glass and ashes and empty chairs. Sherlock tapped his fingers on his knees once more as his opponent pondered the question. The boy was wrapped in Sherlock's blue dressing gown- it was far too big for him but Sherlock had a vague suspicion that children had to be kept warm, so he had draped it over the boy's shoulders. Sherlock himself was wearing a matching red one, the fabric pooling around him on the floor of the flat.

"The other murderer would get away."

"Exactly." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "You have to consider every side of an issue, every possible cause and effect. There are a thousand strings of intention running through every case and you have to be able to thread your way through each and every one of them."

The boy was looking at him now, delighted. "Even if it's not in the rules?"

Sherlock leaned forward. "Especially if it's not in the rules."

The boy grinned. "You should tell that to dad. He always tells me to stick to the rules."

Sherlock stood up unsteadily and walked away from the boy. "Your father was fond of rules," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. _John._ He hadn't thought about him for the space of the whole game. It made him feel heartless, callous. It made him elated and devastated at the same time. Sherlock's vision was going odd. Black, in some parts, like swooping shadows across his vision. Depth perception, too, seemed gone; the glass, was it across the room or under his feet or covering the walls? What walls? Upside down walls, tilting room, ceiling, darkness- 

"Uncle Sherlock!" The boy was screaming. Sherlock opened his eyes.

He was lying on the floor. The boy stood over him, tears streaming down his face.

"Hamish," he muttered. He sat up and the boy stepped back, breathing hard.

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face. "I am sorry," he murmured, trying to keep his voice even. His feet were cut up and full of glass. "Please forgive me."

Hamish nodded and stepped forward slowly. When Sherlock didn't move he crawled quickly into the detective's lap, hiding his face in the folds of the red dressing gown.

Sherlock let him. Children needed to be comforted, didn't they- made to feel that everything was all right. Sherlock had never been comforted as a child; but then, he didn't really want John Watson's only son to turn out like him anyway.

Sherlock let his hand pet the short blond hair of the boy in his lap and tried his best to hum the first Beethoven song that came into his head. He would take care of the glass later.


	4. Call Me Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish doesn't know why he's being called Hamish and Sherlock forgets that both of them need to eat. It's only been one day. Mycroft intervenes.

When Hamish woke up he was on the couch covered with the red and blue dressing gowns. The glass and shards of bone were gone. So was Uncle Sherlock.

Hamish didn't move. He didn't want to be alone- where was Uncle Sherlock? Was he gone?

The thought made Hamish want to cry. But Uncle Sherlock always said emotion was stupid so he screwed up his eyes and tried to make the water in his eyes turn around.

Uncle Sherlock also always said that missing people were rarely actually missing, just hiding or captured or dead. Hamish didn't quite know what he'd meant but he figured it meant he should look for his uncle.

He hopped off the couch. The floor of the flat was cold on his feet. He wrinkled his nose. Mum always used to make him wear socks when his feet got cold but he didn't know where his clothes were- at home? With Mrs. Hudson? Here in 221B?

Dad was sitting in the red armchair. Hamish almost didn't notice him. "Dad?"

John rustled a newspaper in his hands. "Sherlock is in the kitchen," he said quietly. "You'd best go see him."

"Uncle Sherlock?" Hamish called. He poked his head around the doorway of the kitchen.

Sherlock was sitting at the table with his head in his hands.

***

_"What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?"_

_John was laughing, laughing, shaking with the effort to stay quiet. Sherlock felt like he was about to fall off the couch._

_"I don’t know," he admitted, and he couldn’t stop smiling, smiling, smiling._

Sherlock bit the side of his cheek until the taste of blood took over his mouth.

_"Here to see the queen?"_

_Mycroft had entered the room then with as much pomp and pride as the royal family. "Oh, apparently yes," Sherlock snickered, and they laughed and laughed in the face of the elder Holmes._

The flat was quiet and cold-

_John’s eyes and mouth were wide open, laughing, laughing-_

-and Sherlock wanted to scream-

_-the ashtray was right on the table, how would John had felt if he nicked it? They could keep laughing and laughing-_

Scream and scream and scream, mouth wide open, swallow down the point of John’s gun and-

“Uncle Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up. Hamish's blond hair was visible in the doorway, then his eyes, his nose- red, how odd, had he been crying?

Sherlock cleared his throat roughly. "Good morning."

Hamish wrinkled his nose. "I thought you were gone."

That explained the crying then- odd that Sherlock hadn't heard him.

"Are you all right, Hamish?"

The boy wrinkled his nose again. "Why do you call me Hamish?" He asked. "Only Mum calls me that."

Sherlock didn't bother to correct his tense. Nor did he answer the question. The boy was shivering in the doorway and was obviously upset- what would John have done? What would Mary have done? For that matter, where were the boy's clothes?

Sherlock stood and swept into the other room.

Hamish followed him, then stopped and blinked in confusion. "Where's Dad?" he asked.

Sherlock flinched but could think of nothing to say. Distraction, he needed distraction- where were Hamish's clothes? There was no sign of a suitcase or bag in the living room. He'd cleaned up earlier- he would have seen it, wouldn't he have?

Sherlock frowned and tried to think. Remembering and deducing had been harder these past few days- he hadn't noticed when Mycroft had first entered the flat, hadn't heard Hamish following him up the stairs, hadn't noticed when Hamish woke up-

Why had John picked him, of all people?

Hamish was still shivering, looking oddly at the armchair. Sherlock paced over to the couch and picked up the blue dressing gown, then returned to the doorway and thrust it at the four year old.

Hamish took the gown and draped it over his shoulders as best he could.

"Uncle Sherlock?" He whispered, looking up. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock crouched down in front of him, inwardly wondering how to explain to a child that he was a deranged, demented, suicidal, unfeeling sociopath. When he opened his mouth all that came out was, "Will you just call me Sherlock?"

The little boy nodded. "Sherlock."

He said it the same way John used to say it, when he was amused or happy or out of breath.

Sherlock wondered if he would ever be able to think that without feeling like his chest was being ripped open.

He managed not to react to it, nodding solemnly at the boy instead. "And when Mycroft comes around again you have my permission to call him Mikey, okay?"

Hamish nodded.

"Good." Sherlock stood up and looked down, suddenly at a loss for what to do.

There were no cases to solve, no major villains roaming London. No one had threatened him, no attempts had been made on his life. The most pressing danger had been vanquished.

John had seen to that.

"Would you like to do some reading with me?" Sherlock asked.

Hamish wrinkled his nose again (obviously a habit, probably picked up from Mary) and nodded slowly. "I can't read, though," he mumbled.

Sherlock shrugged and went to the bookcase by the fireplace, rooting around for the case files he had nicked from Lestrade. "I'll read and you follow along," he suggested. "You'll pick it up. You can help me solve these, too."

Hamish followed him, tripping on the blue robe. "Are they puzzles?"

Sherlock smiled at the files, bypassing the murder cases (John probably wouldn't want Hamish to see those) and pulling out a cold case on a robbery. Locked hotel room, no sign on a break-in at the doors or windows, three thousand dollars and a diamond choker missing. "In a way," he said, and swept over to the couch, Hamish right on his heels.

***

The door hadn't been opened today. Obvious. Sherlock's coat on the bannister where he had thrown it yesterday- not moved. Hadn't gone out since storming upstairs. Crisp crumbs on the doorstep- Hamish must have come up with him. No sounds from within the flat. 

Fearing the worst, Mycroft opened the door.

No traces of glass or bone- must have been cleaned up. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa. Curtains open, kitchen lights off- he must have been sitting there for most of the day. Blue dressing gown balled up at his side. No sign of the boy. Case files on the copy table.

"Please don't tell me you've been neglecting the boy in favor of cold cases," Mycroft sighed, pulling the door closed behind him.

Sherlock didn't look up. "Please. I'm not completely hopeless."

Mycroft watched him for a long moment. The fact that he was working was excellent- Mycroft hand't expected him to touch any cases for a few weeks at least, but he supposed that his brother had needed a distraction. The fact that Hamish was nowhere to be seen, however, was not excellent.

"Where is the boy?"

"His name is Hamish."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, at my suggestion. Now, Sherlock, where is he?"

Sherlock gestured to the blue dressing gown next to him. "Right here."

Mycroft stiffened and leaned forward. Sure enough, there were tufts of blond hair sticking out of one end of the gown, and a small pale hand fisted in the red robe Sherlock was wearing.

"You're getting slow."

Mycroft leaned back. "He's small. How have you been occupying yourself today?"

Sherlock spread his hands, indicating the files. "Teaching Hamish to read."

"With murder files?" Mycroft scoffed. "You'll give him nightmares."

"Robberies, actually," Sherlock shot back. "I pulled the murders out when he fell asleep."

Mycroft just scowled. "So much better, I'm sure," he said acidly.

Sherlock ignored it. "He asked where John was today."

Mycroft's frown faded. "Unsurprising."

"Is it?" Sherlock looked up.

Mycroft nodded and swung his umbrella slowly. "He has no perception of time, of death. He's _four_ , Sherlock. I wouldn't be surprised if he even sees John from time to time."

Sherlock's eyes closed at that and his hands stilled. Mycroft looked away and tried to distract himself.

He paced slowly around the room, eventually coming to a stop at the kitchen door. He peered inside then turned around, squinting at is brother. "Have you eaten today?"

Sherlock had dropped his gaze to his files again. "No."

"Has Hamish?"

Sherlock stiffened and looked up at his brother in horror.

"For god's sakes!-" Mycroft started to shout, then cleared his throat and said, more quietly, "How is that the one thing you managed to forget?"

Sherlock stared down at Hamish. "He didn't say anything."

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his eyes, devoutly thankful that he had decided to visit Baker Street today. "He's four years old, Sherlock, and he's just lost his parents. Children that age are not developed enough to feel grief- and when they feel grief, they are not talkative."

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "I didn't realize," he said quietly.

"That," Mycroft said, "is obvious."

"I'll take him downstairs- we'll eat with Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock decided. He stood up and gathered the small blue bundle in his arms.

Mycroft watched his brother, not looking away when their eyes met. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Would you like to join us?" Sherlock offered quietly.

Mycroft shook his head. "No thank you."

Sherlock nodded shortly at him and carried Hamish to the door, shifting the boy in his arms to grip the handle. Mycroft watched them go.

"You need to get better at faking sleep," he heard Sherlock murmur in the hallway, and could barely make out the small boy's protest of his innocence.

Mycroft stayed in the flat for several minutes, looking through each of the cupboards and the fridge. He sent a list to Anthea before he left and made sure to lock the door of the flat.


	5. Improbable Routines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three months since Hamish came to live with Sherlock and life has settled into routines that change with each passing day.

Hamish was used to sleeping in a different place each night.

Most often he drifted off on the couch, wrapped in the blue dressing gown that had become primarily his, head in Sherlock's lap as the detective pursued his case files. Those were his favorite nights. Sherlock would read the cases aloud to him and let him guess at the answers.

Often he would sleep down in Mrs. Hudson's flat, when Sherlock was out or in "a state." That happened often enough that he even had his own little bed in one of her spare rooms. He didn't like those nights. They usually meant that something was wrong with Sherlock- he knew that certain things could make his uncle very sad, such as pictures of Dad or calls from certain people or even, it seemed, Hamish and the expressions he made. Hamish didn't know how to help that, though- it hardly made sense to him, but he made an effort to not do things with his face around Sherlock.

On occasion he would sleep in Sherlock's room. He never noticed this until he woke up in the morning and found himself there. He never knew at what point in the night before Sherlock had moved him, or why.

The place he slept the least was his own bed. Hamish shared a very odd bond with Sherlock, one that he could feel in himself even if he couldn't name it, and Sherlock never went upstairs. Never even once.

So Hamish moved around nearly every night, staying with Sherlock, listening to cases and trying to understand. Occasionally they would play Cluedo but Sherlock was much better at it and anyways, Hamish just liked looking at the pictures on the cards.

Sherlock encouraged Hamish to sleep a lot and eat a lot. He got very good at pretending to sleep and hiding his food.

They stayed in the flat almost always. Mycroft came by, all the time. Mrs. Hudson brought tea every morning- at least, Sherlock said she did. Hamish was never awake to see it. He had assumed for a while that it just sort of happened, since he knew his uncle wasn't one for making tea.

Every day was different. Some days Sherlock would lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling and Hamish knew that he ought to go down and watch telly with Mrs. Hudson. Some days Sherlock would fly around, walking across furniture and talking over the telly and flipping quickly through his files, and Hamish would follow him, laughing at the disdain in his uncle's voice as he deduced the lives of the people onscreen and in his files. Some days Hamish would wake up and Sherlock would be in the kitchen with bright bits of glass and strange metal instruments and Hamish knew that if he sat out of the way he could watch, and sometimes Sherlock would tell him what was going on, though he understood little of it.

Hamish didn't talk much; he didn't like to. Sometimes when he thought about his Mum and Dad his stomach hurt, but Sherlock always let him curl up on his lap when that happened.

Hamish decided one day that he was happy with this, with the way things were. In his small mind everything would be fine as long as he could stay with Sherlock forever and ever, because Sherlock made bad dreams and stomach aches go away.

And if Sherlock had bad dreams and sometimes wouldn't talk or open his eyes, well, Hamish would go downstairs.

Everything was fine.

***

Sherlock was losing his mind.

There were some aspects of life now that he enjoyed very much- reading case files to Hamish, for one, was something that he found surprisingly soothing. Not having to talk to anyone beyond the boy, his brother, and his landlady- it was a relief. Time to run experiments in the flat that he'd been putting off for years- priceless.

But everything else...

He felt like a lion in a goldfish tank. Mycroft was the only intellectual to whom Sherlock could speak and he only ever came a few times a week and only ever inquired about the boy. He didn't like leaving the flat, because outside were people with grief and feelings and conversations, but staying in the same space every day was turning him caustic. Worse, his supply of nicked case files was dwindling.

There was little to entertain his mind. He hadn't had an opportunity to go out, stretch his legs, and breath in London for over three months.

Sometimes he left Hamish downstairs with the intention of going out but he never made it out the door. The simple act of putting on his coat was enough to reduce him to a shaking mess on the floor of the flat.

Which was closely linked to the greatest drawback in his life; John. Or rather, the lack of him.

It hurt. Sherlock had never felt such a hurt in his life. He used to be divorced from emotion, a pure rational mind, a machine that wouldn't allow feelings destroy his inner workings.

And yet, some part of him had twisted into something much like a heart when he had met John.

Interest. That's what he called it, to himself, for months and months. Interest in the good army doctor.

He started calling it infatuation when John offered to sacrifice his life to save Sherlock; when John, semtex-covered-John had rushed forward and wrapped his arms around the neck of Sherlock's worst foe without a thought for self-preservation. Infatuation seemed right, at the time.

When he stood on the rooftop he called it obsession. It kept him still while he jumped, while he acted, while he laid as a corpse between the only man that had ever mattered. That obsession made it harder to go through with the plan. That obsession lived in him for two long years as he stayed away, wasting away as he tried to eliminate each of the threats he could find. It nested in his stomach and troubled him late at night, in the morning, every time he thought, every day. It was enough to make him come back.

Sherlock didn't call it love until he stood, playing the violin while wearing a tuxedo, watching the good army doctor waltz across the floor with Mary in his arms. It hit him hard, in every fiber of his being; love. That was what that feeling was. It vibrated in every note that he wrung from the violin. But looking around the room, Sherlock could tell that he was the only one that felt it.

Love. That had been over five years ago, now. And yet the reminder of it was still enough to send him trembling, gasping, to his knees in the middle of the flat.

Love, love, love. Sherlock Holmes had loved John Watson with every atom of him, and John had never known.

It tore at him. It ate him alive. Sometimes he could hardly stand it- he would take Hamish downstairs then return to scream and rant and weep and curse his fate, whatever fate had so determined that Sherlock Holmes had to live past the one man who made him alive.

There was almost nothing to distract him from it. No drugs- John would have gone into a rage if he did that around Hamish. No cases- the thought of leaving the flat made his stomach turn. Even talking to Hamish was often not an option, since Sherlock was determined to keep the boy from seeing his blackest moods and always placed him under Mrs. Hudson's good care when he could feel his mind started to darken.

Sherlock knew that Hamish deserved the best. He was John Watson's son, after all; Sherlock would have torn apart the world and presented it to Hamish in little pieces if he thought John would have wanted it.

It went past loyalty to the dead doctor though- Sherlock was fascinated by Hamish. The boy was undeniably bright and perceptive and he adored Sherlock, which the detective was certainly not used to. He followed him everywhere, almost perpetually wrapped in the blue dressing gown, asking questions without needing to understand the answers, making faces that echoed the lives of parents, singing made-up songs when he was alone, watching the case files with bright eyes, devoted to his surrogate uncle with every part of him.

He was rather bad at faking sleep, however, which Sherlock often noted with amusement.

Hamish was one good thing in 221B.

He wasn't nearly enough to stave off the blackness that would often rise in Sherlock but he was close, he was very close.

It terrified Sherlock, how much he cared for the boy.

It terrified him how much the boy looked like John.

But he was most terrified by the thought that he wasn't raising the boy right- that he wasn't raising him the way John would have wanted him to.


	6. The Black Coat, The Blue Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know I wouldn’t be calling unless I really needed you.”
> 
> "Where are you?"

The call came in the evening.

Sherlock answered without looking at the caller ID. “Mycroft?” He asked.

The voice at the other end hesitated. “Sherlock,” it said finally. Definitely not Mycroft.

Sherlock hung up.

Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Forty seconds.

The phone rang again.

Hamish looked up from his picture books (a gift from Mrs. Hudson) and blinked. “Why won’t you talk to Mycroft?” He asked.

Sherlock stared hard at the opposite wall, trying to ignore the sound. “It’s not Mycroft.”

Hamish stood up and walked over, the oversized blue robe trailing behind him. Sherlock didn’t look away from the wall as the boy picked up the ringing cell phone and peered at the screen.

The phone stopped ringing. Hamish shrugged and handed it back.

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.

The phone started ringing again.

Hamish opened his eyes wide and made a face at Sherlock. “They really want to talk to you!”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock muttered.

Hamish picked up the ringing phone and thrust it at the detective. “Mrs. Hudson always answers her phone when it rings,” he declared.

“Mrs. Hudson has a niece with relationship troubles and a sister with a cold, of course she’d answer,” Sherlock replied quickly. Hamish giggled.

The phone was ringing. Sherlock looked at Hamish’s happy face, at the case files still sprawled on the table, at the empty flat. Weeks and weeks of safety and boredom. Weeks and weeks of peace and thoughtlessness.

Sherlock took the phone from Hamish and answered it. “Hello?”

“Sherlock.” The voice that filled his ear was antagonized, desperate, and undeniably sad.

“Lestrade.”

Hamish looked up, wrinkling his nose at the unfamiliar name.

“You know I wouldn’t be calling unless I really needed you.”

Sherlock was silent. Weeks and weeks of being cooped up in the flat- would he even be able to get out the door? Would he even be able to see the clues he needed?

Sherlock stared at Hamish too. The boy was watching him, toying with the edge of the dressing gown, bright face open and trusting and oh-so-similar to John’s.

Peace and thoughtlessness. Danger and mystery.

Sherlock sighed into the phone. “Where are you?”

***

“Is it a puzzle, like the case files?” Hamish asked, bouncing on the couch cushions.

Sherlock was rushing around the flat, gathering small odds and ends and tucking them into his pockets. “A bit,” he muttered, pushing back some books on the shelf and drawing a small black square from behind them. “But infinitely harder and more dangerous.”

Hamish watched him curiously. He’d never seen Sherlock move so quickly or with so much focus. “Who was the man on the phone? The man you called Lestry?”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock corrected. “He’s a Detective Inspector.”

Hamish mulled this over. “A detective? Like you?”

Sherlock picked Hamish up and set him on the floor, then proceeded to pull all the cushions off the couch and search underneath them. “He tries to solve crimes like the ones I do but he hardly ever figures them out.” Sherlock cursed and straightened up, casting his eyes over the room.

Hamish started chewing on the end of the tie on his blue robe. “Is that why he called you?”

“Don’t put that in your mouth. Yes, he calls me when he needs help. Which is always.”

“Then why hasn’t he called you before now?”

Sherlock paused in the middle of the room with his eyes closed. “I haven’t been taking cases lately,” he said finally. “I’ve been unwell. He knew better than to call.”

Hamish clambered back onto the couch. He hadn’t known Sherlock had been unwell- apart from how sad he was, but Hamish didn’t think sadness was a sickness. “What sort of puzzle is it? A robbery? A disappearance?”

Sherlock shook his head quickly and went back to tearing apart the flat, searching through every cupboard and drawer. “It’s not either of those,” he muttered. “Far more complex, far more dire.”

“Is it dangerous?”

Sherlock stopped again, running his hands through his hair, breathing heavily. Hamish stared at him, slightly alarmed, as Sherlock covered his face with his hands. The detective stood for a moment before looking up once more. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Could be dangerous.”

Hamish hopped off the couch and went to the detective, feeling odd about being at eye-level with the taller man. “Are you gonna save anyone?” Hamish whispered.

Sherlock was looking at him oddly and shook his head. “Probably not,” he said. “No one needs saving in this case, not anymore.”

“Dad always said it was your job to save people.”

Sherlock winced and then tried to smile. “It was your father’s job to save people,” he corrected quietly. “It’s my job to solve their mur- their deaths.”

Hamish frowned and stared into his uncle’s pale eyes for a long moment. “Dad always said you were like a superhero.”

Sherlock stared right back. There was silence for a long moment.

“Your father always saw the best in people,” Sherlock said finally. “I really need to get going, though, Hamish, where is my bloody scarf?” He shot to his feet.

Hamish stepped back and looked up. “Can I come?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Hamish pouted.

Sherlock dropped to his knees in the kitchen, peering underneath the stove. “Too dangerous,” he called. “How on earth did my scarf get here…? Hamish?”

“Yeah?” Hamish went slowly back to the couch, chewing on the tie of his robe again.

“Why did you put my scarf under the- are you all right?” Sherlock stopped in the kitchen doorway.

Hamish nodded and turned away.

Sherlock was suddenly there, on the couch, pulling the boy towards him. “Eyes red, nose running, chewing something for comfort, retreating physically and verbally. What’s wrong?”

Hamish let out a little sob and buried his face in Sherlock’s white shirt.

There was a light pressure on Hamish’s head as Sherlock began slowly running his fingers through the boy’s hair. “Hamish. Tell me what’s wrong.” He murmured.

“I don’t want you to leave me here alone,” Hamish choked out. “I don’t want you to go be dangerous and maybe not come back.”

Sherlock’s hand stilled. “Why wouldn’t I come back?”

Hamish fisted his hands in Sherlock’s shirt. “Because that’s what Dad said, just before he left,” he sobbed. “He looked at Mum and said ‘could be dangerous’ and she nodded and they left. They said I couldn’t come and they left.”

He could feel Sherlock sigh deeply, heavily. “Look at me, Hamish,” he said. Hamish sniffed and sat up, rubbing his nose on the sleeve of the dressing gown.

Sherlock took the boy’s tiny face in his hands. “Hamish,” the detective said, staring at the boy intently, “I promise you- I promise- that I will come back tonight. Do you understand?”

Hamish nodded, sniffling.

Sherlock’s eyes were very very blue. “I wouldn’t be going if I thought I wouldn’t come back.” He said slowly, voice quavering. “Nothing that I’m going to face can hurt me enough that I won’t come back. I promise you, Hamish. I will come back.” His hands were shaking; Hamish could feel them on his jaw. “I swear to you that I will come back.”

Hamish nodded again. “Don’t be too dangerous, Sherlock.”

“I won’t, John.” Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath. “Hamish. I won’t, Hamish. I’ll be fine.”

The boy nodded.

“But I do need to go.” Sherlock sat back and glanced around the flat one final time. “Would you fetch me my coat? Then I’ll take you down to Mrs. Hudson’s.”

Hamish nodded and slipped off the couch, still rubbing his nose on the blue dressing gown as he left the room.

Sherlock didn’t notice. He had slipped his phone out of his pocket once the boy got up and was composing a text to Mycroft.

_I would greatly appreciate extra surveillance on Baker Street tonight, brother dear, if you don’t mind. I have a case. Hamish is staying with Mrs. Hudson. SH_

Sherlock sent the text just as Hamish stumbled back into the room, tripping over the large black coat and his own oversized gown.

“Thank you, Hamish,” Sherlock muttered, taking the coat from the boy. “Are you ready to go?”

Hamish nodded.

Sherlock stepped back, positioning himself in the very middle of the living room. As Hamish watched, awestruck, his uncle carefully tied a blue scarf around his neck and swung the large coat around, like a magician’s cape, before pulling it on and flipping up the collar.

His face looked odd- he was smiling but his eyes were very red. Hamish tried to smile, to make him feel better, but Sherlock didn’t smile back.

“Time to go, Hamish,” Sherlock announced. He picked the boy up and carried him out the door.

Hamish clung to the black coat, the blue scarf, for as long as he could.

***

The reply didn’t come until Sherlock was on the doorstep of the building, steeling himself to take the first steps outside, to pursue his first post-John case.

_I have extra surveillance. Hamish will be safe. Be careful. MH_

Sherlock nodded at the tiny screen. Then he looked up and, after tucking the phone in his pocket, doing up the buttons on his coat, and flipping his collar up once more, he opened the door marked 221B and stepped outside.


	7. Two Coins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentiment is a chemical defect? All emotions are, actually. And Sherlock can't work with them.

London felt different.

The streets were the same. The cabs were still there. It was raining, like always. The people moved the same way they always had, the lights shone they way they'd always shone, and yet everything felt different.

Sherlock didn't know if he liked London as much without John Watson in it.

His mind was at war with itself; the two sides threatened to pull him apart. One was an echo, a shade of his old mind; obsessed with the data, ever deducing, always thinking, pure logic, no emotion, anger, frustration, boredom, that need for danger, that love of the game, the chase.

The other half was hot and red and sad. The other half thought about jumpers in the fireplace and an army-issue handgun and the countless times that John, John, John had followed Sherlock on every case, every thought.

Sherlock used to be emotionless. He prided himself on it. It had taken John to make him feel again, feel with every inch of his being.

Now that John was gone the damage was irreversible. Sherlock couldn't suppress the emotions, no matter how he tried.

So he sat quietly in the back of the cab, attempting to shred his thoughts into two pieces, trying desperately to only operate with the half of his mind that could stay on the work, feverishly attempting to lock up the throbbing emotions so that he could think.

It felt almost like a coping mechanism, the sort that a therapist or psychiatrist or some other idiot would encourage. Sherlock sneered at the empty seat across from him, imagining a doctor there, patronizing him, attempting to "help" him, "fix" him.

He didn't need fixing. He needed to think.

The cab moved swiftly through the rain. Sherlock kept his eyes down, watching the lights play over the inside of the cab, over his gloved hands and dark coat.

He could feel the division he wanted in his mind sharply; the useful information, the crippling emotion. He wanted them to be split apart, as though by an axe, but they remained inexplicably wound together. He tried to separate them.

It felt odd. It felt chaotic and dangerous. It was like having two different people talking at once- like having a conversation with two people that were shouting in each other's faces. Sherlock flinched and rubbed his temples- he was getting a headache.

But it felt important. So he pushed the two halves away from each other and tried to make them quiet down.

The useful information sounded a lot like Mycroft. The sentimental side sounded a lot like John.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock moaned, clutching at his head.

"S'cuse?" The cabbie asked, peering at him in the rearview mirror.

Sherlock looked up and frowned, waving a hand at the other man. "Nothing. Drive on."

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to dive into his mental John for the rest of the night- follow every memory, catalogue every touch, wrap himself up in every word that hadn't mattered to him when John was alive because he hadn't known how numbered they were.

But Mycroft was demanding his attention and the cab was close to the address Lestrade had given. Sherlock turned his back on his sentimental mind and tried to silence it for the night.

And for one glorious second, it worked.

Instantly the data began swirling around his head. No distractions, no obstructions; his mind was exuberant. A case, a night out, a puzzle, a problem. Something to think about, something to solve, a break from the monotony of the past three months.

Sherlock relished it. Emotionless. Utterly emotionless. He hadn't felt this way in over three months. It was like waking up after a long sleep- he felt slightly fuzzy, slightly disoriented, but refreshed and gasping for an opportunity to move, to work, to deduce.

He could _see_. He could see the mussed collar on the cabbie that spoke of anxiety, the marks on the cab seat that showed the hand lotion of the last rider, the mud on the floor that revealed rain earlier in the day. Sherlock let himself enjoy one small, twisted smile.

The cabbie pulled up to the curb and Sherlock jumped out. Had he been thinking with any sentimentality he would have remembered all of those cab rides with John, all the cases they had closed, all the nights they chased down in the backstreets of their beloved London.

But Sherlock had finally learned to muzzle those emotions for a short amount of time, at least, and as he tipped the cabbie and strode into the building John didn't even cross his mind.

***

Lestrade had lost seven pounds. Donovan was sleeping with Anderson again. The building they were in was an abandoned factory and the girl laying facedown in front of him had not been murdered.

Sherlock felt alive.

Lestrade was watching him wearily, eyes darting back and forth between him and body. The scene was empty of any other cops; Sherlock could tell that Lestrade hadn't wanted to overwhelm him and felt only a passing annoyance at the consideration.

The DI seemed hesitant. "I- I'm sorry to have, to have called," he stuttered. "I know you don't- you haven't-"

Sherlock held up a hand. "Pretend for the next ten minutes that absolutely nothing has happened and tell me about this body, Detective Inspector, if you please." His voice sounded cold and flat to his own ears but he needed this- needed emotional distance, needed information, needed a case.

Lestrade nodded. He looked terrible, and not only because of lost weight. His eyes were sunken. His stubble was rough and uneven. His coat was covered in stains. His shoes revealed a wealth of information about his recently acquired drinking habits.

Sherlock saw it all but did not, for one second, allow himself to think about the reasons why.

"Construction workers were going through, you know, checking this place out before a demolition," the DI explained as he paced around the body. Sherlock looked down at the girl carefully, trying to deduce, trying to listen. "They found her here- called the police right away, according to their statement."

Sherlock crouched down. "Have you run identification on the body?"

Lestrade sighed deeply. "Haven't been able to. There was nothing on her- no cards, no identification. We have no way of knowing who she is."

Sherlock frowned, carefully turning over one of her hands. "I wouldn't say that," he muttered. "Why did you call me here?"

Lestrade didn't take his eyes off of the body. Sherlock stood up, staring at the man intently. "You wouldn't have called me here without a very good reason, Lestrade. What's happened? What makes this girl special?"

Greg Lestrade buried his hands in his pockets and looked down at the ground for a long moment. "Sherlock-" he sighed. 

There was a long pause.

"I don't suppose I could ask you to just give us a clue and go home, can I?" The DI asked. He looked at Sherlock with so much sorrow and fear that Sherlock felt it in his stomach.

"No. You can't," Sherlock snapped. He stepped over the body, getting right in the older man's face. "I'm tired, Lestrade, I'm tired and I'm broken," Sherlock hissed at him. "You called me here for a reason. I left a perfectly good flat and a perfectly terrified four-year-old to get here so tell me. Why. Am. I. Here."

Lestrade stepped back. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said slowly.

Sherlock whipped around, growling. "I don't have time for sentiment and grief," he snapped. "I'm working very hard at the moment to be able to think rationally, let alone solve a case, and I really would appreciate it if you'd-"

"There's nothing." Lestrade cut him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's nothing," the DI repeated. "Nothing special about this girl, nothing connecting her to anything bigger." His eyes were dark and sad. "It's just a body, Sherlock. A body that we have no leads on, so we called you in."

Sherlock stared at him. His head swam and began to pulse painfully. No puzzle, then. Nothing to work out. No leads, no trails, no chase.

Sherlock looked down at the body again. Just a body. Just a body.

He hadn't known how much he relished a challenge until that moment. He _wanted_ a connection, he _needed_ it. He'd had nothing for so long, nothing but case files, nothing truly satisfying. His mind was going to dissolve with boredom, with frustration if this went on any longer.

Sherlock felt very tired, very abruptly. Emotions began to swirl around his mind again, clouding his thoughts, pushing forward memories that had nothing to do with this girl, this case.

It wasn't even a case.

Sherlock couldn't think. His head hurt- god his head hurt. There was so much NOISE.

"Suicide, not murder," Sherlock forced out, clutching his head. "She's from London- probably by the river. Been here for at least three days." There was shouting, people were shouting, but was it outside of his head or in? "Probably pills- didn't you check for anything in her system?"

He couldn't even hear Lestrade's response; there was too much noise, too much chaos. Words and feelings and numbers that had nothing to do with where he was- it was like having everyone yelling at him at once, John and Mycroft and Moriarty and Mrs. Hudson and Magnussen and Hamish, all pulling at him, twisting him, yelling in his ears and dragging him under-

Sherlock screamed.

The noise in his head stopped. Lestrade was staring at him. Sherlock raised his head slowly, almost snarling, staring straight at the DI.

"Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock cut him off. "Next time try and find something remotely challenging before you decide to try calling me in." His voice dripped with venom and his chest heaved as he stood there, panting, glaring. "I had to leave Hamish for this."

No one said anything as he swept out of the building; no one tried to stop him; Sherlock didn't even think any one them noticed him, too unused to having him there.

Sherlock didn't flip up his collar as he went. He was too bust trying to reason with the two opposing sides in his own mind.


	8. Midnight in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one can stay cooped up in a flat forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this earlier but I just went back and changed it- the entire second half is different. I needed Sherlock to go out and get some London in his lungs.

Hamish was asleep in Mrs. Hudson's flat when Sherlock got home. He stood in the doorway of the spare room, taking in the dried crust around the boy's eyes, the redness of his face, the tight grip he had on the blankets. He'd had a rough time falling asleep; it was obvious.

Sherlock picked him up and carried him upstairs. He slept in his own bed for the first time in months, tucking Hamish in first and then letting himself curl around the boy.

Hamish's hand caught on Sherlock's collar and held it all night long.

Sherlock actually slept the whole night through.

***

"You do realize that this process often has a lot of legal involvement," Mycroft said briskly.

Sherlock glared. "Why would I know anything about that?"

His older brother shrugged, keeping his face maddeningly blank. "You do often claim to know everything."

Sherlock growled. Mycroft smiled and cleared his throat, cocking his head just barely to one side.

"No sane government would leave the raising of anyone to me," Sherlock muttered finally. "I would...appreciate your help."

Mycroft smiled again. "Already taken care of. Why do you think you've been left alone these past five months?"

"I was sure my charming personality had thrown them off," Sherlock snapped. "What exactly did you do?"

"Hardly anything, I assure you." Mycroft laid a set of files on the coffee table that sat between him and his brother. "I merely let the offices know that you were to be trusted with the raising of this boy and they needn't interfere."

Sherlock leaned backwards, letting himself sprawl out on the couch. His eyes didn't waver. "How long ago did you have that done?"

"I hardly think that matters."

There was a moment of silence in the flat. Hamish had been sent downstairs once Mycroft had shown up- one look at his brother informed Sherlock that what they needed to say was not in Hamish's interest to hear.

Mycroft leaned forward in his armchair. "How have you been occupying yourself."

Sherlock looked away, out the window, running a hand through his unkept hair. "I haven't been."

Mycroft scoffed. "I doubt that. I was informed about your little...episode at Lestrade's case, two months ago." Mycroft watched the tension grow in his younger brother's jaw. "Have you been out since then?"

"Not for any length of time and not for any cases," Sherlock said shortly.

Sunlight was streaming through the windows of the flat, turning the air gold. Mycroft watched it for a moment. "Cold cases, then. Anything you can solve over email. Any puzzles you haven't had time for, and...yes..." his eyes had moved to the sitting room floor, "you've been playing Cluedo with Hamish." His eyes snapped back to Sherlock. "Hardly good uses of your time."

Sherlock was rubbing his temples idly. "I can't go out," he growled. "I'm trying to separate the thinking and feeling parts of my mind." His eyes were narrow and very cold. "I don't want to go out and risk breaking down again so if you would please not bait me I would be infinitely grateful, brother mine."

Mycroft stood up. "I'll leave then," he said, smiling cheerfully. "One more thing though- try to make sure you don't inflict your self-imposed exile on the boy as well as yourself."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock snapped, turning his head. All he saw was the door of the flat clicking closed in his brother's wake.

***

"Dad?" Hamish shouted. "Can you help me?"

Sherlock came out of the kitchen, eyes wide and mouth open. "What did you call me, Hamish?" He asked slowly.

"Dad- oh, Sherlock." Hamish cocked his head at the detective, frowning. "I forgot."

Sherlock blinked and closed his mouth.

***

"Is it possible, though? For him to completely forget about John and Mary?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I don't spend any time around children."

"He called me his father."

"That's obviously what he thinks of you as."

"Shut up, Mycroft. i don't want him forgetting his parents."

"I don't think he will- no, listen. He's young. His memory is bad. When he gets older he will remember them; in shades and shadows and flashes, but he'll remember them."

"I hope he does."

"I hope he does, too. Terribly painful for you, otherwise."

"Don't bait me, Mycroft." "Never, brother mine." 

***

Sherlock allowed himself one pack of cigarettes. He could feel it against his chest, nestled inside his large black coat. It felt like safety, insurance. If things got too hard he could pull the little box out, light his problems on fire and breathe them out like smoke.

It was almost midnight. Hamish was home, asleep in Sherlock's bed. The doors to the flat were locked, the windows were bolted, Mrs. Hudson had been informed- absolutely no harm could happen to anyone on Baker Street tonight, and it helped Sherlock breathe easier as he wandered through the darkened streets.

London hardly ever fell asleep, and when she did, it was fitful. Sherlock could sympathize entirely. He loved London more than he loved almost anything- his two year death-exile had left him aching, aching for her grey streets and tall, dark buildings. He had missed falling in the Thames and running through the alleyways. Coming home had been like coming back to life, in more ways than one.

Now he almost feared her.

She was a stranger.

But he walked down the street with his head held high anyway, watching every flicker of movement in the dark, breathing in deeply with every step.

He had been shut up in 221B so long that he had forgotten exactly where it was that he lived. He had lost London's pulse, and he was determined to find it again.

Besides, exile was boring. Even pacing aimlessly through the streets was easier and more interesting than spending another night trying to focus on cold cases while Hamish snuffled and shifted and generally acted like John. Sherlock was pleased with the boy, how bright he was, how innocent, how charming, but it was like a handshake and a knife thrust all at once. The boy looked SO MUCH like John, and he was only four. It hurt to look at him, sometimes. It hurt to watch him fall asleep and catch old, familiar flickers in such a young face.

Pacing London was easier, much easier. And more interesting. Sherlock reminded himself of that second fact often; then being out was more interesting than endlessly pawing through case files. That boredom was what had brought him from the flat.

But as Sherlock ducked into a back alley and crept up a rusty fire escape, he knew that sheer desire to be back in the thick of London would have driven him out of the flat eventually.

He emerged onto the rooftop and looked around, taking in the city lights.

Midnight, and London was still awake. Full of people- politicians and criminals and soldiers and spies, all laid out at his feet, and he had been hiding inside.

"Welcome to London," he said out loud, turning slowly, drawing in all of the data, memorizing the exact layout of his beloved city.

Sherlock had once confessed that he could not comprehend beauty- that it baffled him. His feelings had not changed. London was not beautiful, to him. It was dark and tense and alive. The lights did not make him sentimental; the streets did not fill him with love. Here on the rooftop he was reminded only of the layout of the city and the times he had traversed it with John for cases, always for cases. He did not stare at the buildings on the horizon for inspiration. He looked to remind himself that London, his home, was full of danger, and that there was nothing he wanted more than to dive into it.

"Welcome to London," he said again as he left the rooftop, jumping down the fire escape, seeking contact with the dirty city streets once more. The words felt heavy- there had to be a memory attached. He didn't try to trace it, to remember it, just let the word stir and settle in his head, knowing that he would remember soon.

He came out on a street corner. 

Someone beside him laughed. "What?" Sherlock asked.

_John chuckled, shaking his head. "Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London.'" He laughed again._

Sherlock laughed too, feeling the happiness swell up inside him, coating the inside of his chest with gold.

Perfect camaraderie.

_Sherlock smiled. "Got your breath back?"_

_"Ready when you are."_

Sherlock took off running down the street.

He could feel the pounding of his footsteps, hear other footsteps behind him. It was perfect. His lungs burned, his chest ached, and Sherlock felt like fire being released into the streets. There was clarity. This was his London, his home, and every smack of his feet on the pavement made him feel lighter and lighter.

He had missed this, chasing through London with his army doctor at his side. No criminals were safe from them, no cases could not be cracked. London was alive and Sherlock felt like the center of its very mind.

He reached Baker Street and stopped, gasping, spinning around for his companion. "John? John?"

As soon as the words left his mouth Sherlock wrenched himself upright, the smile dropping from his face as he inhaled sharply.

There was no one on the Baker Street; no one had run with him across London; no one was there to laugh with him.

Sherlock panted, staring, unsmiling. His hands fumbled with the buttons on his coat and he pulled out his cigarettes, fumbling with the box and the lighter until he could put one of his vices in between his teeth, light it, breathe it in.

The smoke swirled inside of him, calming him, though it could not touch the heavy feeling of iron sitting in his stomach. He breathed smoke and ashes, letting it curl around his head and smother him.

It was midnight on Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes was smoking, alone.

He managed to keep his feet. He managed to steady his breath. He didn't collapse, or scream, or cry. He just stood and smoked.

London swirled around him slowly, sluggishly, dark and sleepy. Sherlock still felt like it's mind but he had forgotten, forgotten that London used to have a heart too, a heart named John Watson.

Nothing moved on Baker Street but the smoke, falling slowly from Sherlock's mouth.

He forced the pain in his stomach up, into his lungs, and spat it out with the smoke. London was in danger and he couldn't stay inside any more. London belonged to him, and he belonged to her. He caught her villains and she provided more for him to puzzle over, to think about.

Sherlock still felt full and bright and alive, wreathed in smoke and shrouded in darkness. His nighttime sojourn had broken his exile. He could survive in this world, on his own. He could find things to occupy his time. He could thrive. He was fine. He was fine.

He pulled out another cigarette. His hands shook.


	9. Break and Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thinking and feeling cannot mix in the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how many people saw the last chapter before I changed it, but I did change it. Quite a lot. So you ought to all go back and make sure you caught the changes, if you think you saw the earlier version. Also, a lot of this chapter is mental- not much action happens. Sherlock really needs to get his head on straight and it starts now.

"You cannot erase your feelings."

Sherlock was lying moodily on the couch, Mycroft across the room in John's chair. Hamish sat halfway between them, idly playing with a small set of wooden blocks.

"No, I can't."

"I'm not even convinced that you want to."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh hell, what does it matter?" He snapped.

"If a patient does not wish to get better there is no medicine in the world that can revive them," Mycroft pointed out. "You won't be able to control and delete your memories of John unless you want to."

"I don't want to, though." Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "I could never delete John."

Hamish hummed quietly, carefully stacking his toys.

Mycroft sighed. "Why did you ask me here?"

Sherlock waved an errant hand at him. "The emotions are too difficult to deal with," he said quietly. "I have no wish to delete any memories about John but they come with a considerable amount of sentimental baggage." He sighed deeply, staring upwards once more. "It makes it too hard to work."

Mycroft snorted.

Sherlock turned and glared at him. "Yes, WORK," the detective snarled. "I've been TRYING, Mycroft. Much as it doesn't look like it I've been trying."

"And?"

Sherlock let himself fall back onto the couch once more. "And it doesn't work."

"You solve puzzles all the time though," Hamish pointed out quietly, looking up.

"I'm not talking about case files." Sherlock put his hands over his eyes. "I mean actually going out, seeing people, trying to deduce, trying to think. Case files are just reading and making logical guesses. Actual working cases, actual mental stimulation- it's too hard." He steepled his hands under his chin. "Things keep cropping up. Memories. Flashbacks. Actual hallucinations, both visual and auditory."

Hamish was stacking his blocks again, brow furrowed in perfect concentration.

Mycroft watched the two of them for a long moment. "So what exactly is it that you would like me to do?"

Sherlock swung his feet around and sat up on the couch. His eyes were very dark and serious as he opened his mouth-

"Hamish, come here," Mycroft snapped, cutting his brother off. The little boy looked up, startled, then got up and walked slowly to the armchair.

Mycroft placed his hands firmly over the boy's ears.

"Have you lost your mind?" He hissed at Sherlock, pitching his voice low.

Sherlock was staring at him, amused. "You haven't even heard what I was going to ask," he said easily. "Why are you manhandling Hamish?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Because I'd like to keep the happy truth about his guardian's recreational pursuits from him for as long as I can," he snapped. "Damn you, Sherlock! How can you even think that would be an option?"

Hamish squirmed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "This is hardly recreational," he said slowly.

Mycroft huffed, pressing almost desperately against the small boy's ears. "I don't care about the motives, Sherlock, it's not a good idea."

"I just need to focus."

"You 'just need' to learn how to focus again. This isn't something you can wash away with a bottle of pills."

Sherlock slumped back on the couch, sulking. "I would be careful," he groused. "Just some Adderall or Ritalin, I'd be careful-"

"Not an option."

"Mycroft-"

"NO, Sherlock!"

There was a long silence. Hamish squirmed again suddenly, twisting away from Mycroft. He stared up accusingly at the other man, then spun and looked pleadingly at Sherlock. The detective, however, was staring at the ceiling and did not notice.

"Why don't you go downstairs, Hamish," Mycroft said quietly. "I know Mrs. Hudson was baking something when I came upstairs."

Hamish continued to look at Sherlock for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He stooped and picked up his blocks, tucking most of them into the large pockets of the blue dressing gown draped over his shoulders, and carried the rest in his arms. He walked carefully to the door. His face was blank, free of emotion, and Mycroft was startled by how much he managed to look like Sherlock and John at the same time. Mycroft listened for his footsteps all the way down the staircase.

"He turns five in a week," Sherlock said suddenly. "Children like getting older, don't they? Am I obligated to throw a party?"

Mycroft shrugged. "There are alternatives," he said coldly.

Sherlock's eyes looked very red but he stared resolutely at the ceiling. "I've tried." His voice was broken and soft.

Mycroft nodded. "I know."

"I just... I know something that will work." Sherlock was all hard lines and pale skin, sprawled out on the couch, unmoving. "Splitting my head. Separating it, into the parts that feel and the parts that think." He swallowed. "I tried it a few days ago..no...that was three months ago? Whenever it was that Lestrade called me out." He brushed the thought aside with his hand. "Whenever it was. It almost worked, I could almost force my head into...two separate schools of thought, if you will." 

Mycroft was leaning forward in his seat, listening intently.

"And it almost worked," Sherlock said again. "But I couldn't focus." He flinched. "It was like having people in my head fighting, like having you and John on opposite sides of my mind just screaming and screaming..."

Mycroft tapped his fingers slowly on his umbrella.

"I just need focus." Sherlock shut his eyes.

"I hate to see you so broken," Mycroft said slowly. "It appalls me."

Outside the windows London moved and lived and steamed by. Downstairs Mrs. Hudson fluttered around her kitchen, stepping over a small boy in a large blue robe playing with blocks in the middle of the floor. Inside 221B, however, nothing moved and neither brother made a sound.

Mycroft could see everything, every movement Sherlock had made like a map laid over the parts of the flat he could see. Breaks in the dust line, flattened bits of carpet, the placement of teacups, the scattering of crumbs; Mycroft saw it all at a glance. But he knew the one thing that made him different from his younger brother, that made him steadier and stronger; he noticed these details, but he did not focus on them. He could let the information slide into his mind without looking directly at it until he needed to.

Sherlock focused on everything at once. He couldn't not. His attention jumped a thousand times a minute to every inconceivable detail around him, looking straight at each one, considering it, storing it. It was unsurprising to Mycroft that his brother was overwhelmed, with raw emotion being piled on top of that chaos every day.

But his brother had picked the wrong way to organize it.

"Sherlock, you just need to use your head," Mycroft said finally.

The detective didn't move. His eyes were far away.

"The ability is there, to do this 'splitting' of your thoughts. You just need to work at it." Mycroft settled back in his chair. "You're observant, not attention deficit," he finished quietly. "I will not hand you a bottle of pills when I believe you have the power to solve this on your own."

Sherlock still didn't move. He remained on the couch staring at the ceiling for hours, long after Mycroft had left, long after Hamish had climbed up the stairs and curled up next to him on the couch, long after the sun had set.

His eyes never closed. His attention never wavered. He fought with his mind palace, with the data and the emotions. He tried to ease them apart. He tried to separate them.

But his mind remained whole.

***

"I am FIVE," Hamish said out loud. "FIVE FIVE FIVE FIVE FIVE."

Sherlock looked at him from where he was standing in the window. "Would you like me to play you a song?" He asked seriously.

Hamish nodded, settling down in the middle of the flat to watch the detective play.

Sherlock pulled the violin out of the case with a flourish, raising it dramatically to his shoulder.

He began to play, a slow wavering piece that he knew Hamish wouldn't recognize as Tchaikovsky. Hamish's face fell.

Sherlock gave him a small smile and the song changed, flowing smoothly upwards through the notes until it suddenly became a quick if graceful rendition of 'Happy Birthday.' Hamish positively wriggled, eyes sparkling even as he tried to make his face stoic.

Sherlock finished and bowed as Hamish clapped. "What would you like to do for your birthday?" Sherlock asked, standing back up and tucking the violin away. Inwardly he hoped and prayed that the boy didn't want some sort of party, some sort of outing- Sherlock still didn't like to leave the flat in the daytime, and a crew of screaming children running around the flat was the last thing he needed.

"Dad said he'd take me out, but he's not here," Hamish replied promptly.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "When did he tell you that?" He fought to keep his voice steady.

"Yesterday."

Sherlock shook his head slowly and opened his eyes, half expecting Hamish to ask more questions about where John was, where he had gone.

But Hamish just held out his hands, palms up, and said seriously, "Anyway, Mrs. Hudson promised me a cake and a movie so we HAVE TO go downstairs for that."

Sherlock stood for a long moment before starting for the door, letting the boy trail behind him. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," he told Hamish.

***

It was easy for Sherlock to block out the movie Mrs. Hudson had put on for Hamish (something about talking animated fish that made Sherlock flinch inside) once he had settled down on her couch. Hamish was eating his cake slowly, savoring it, and Sherlock spared him a quick and searching glance before he shut his eyes.

All noise ceased. All physical sensations melted away. When Sherlock opened his eyes again he was at the bottom of a large staircase, looking up.

The center of his mind palace.

He wandered. He had spent hours and hours here lately, attempting to break it into pieces, attempting to separate the logic from the emotion. It had been excruciating. He was plagued with migraines. It would have been easy to completely forget to ever come out- but he had an obligation to Hamish, and so he set careful limits on the amount of time he allowed himself to get lost in his own head.

It was like trying to cut through stone, this separation. Somehow John had woven himself into every memory of Sherlock's- his laugh was tangled in the maps of London, the sound of his footsteps covered the verbal cues of someone who is lying, his jumpers seemed to be laid over every surface that held mental files and data. It was extremely frustrating. It was also extremely painful. Sherlock had been broken out of his palace more than once, gasping and crying, after stumbling upon memories of John's wedding, John's departure, John's death-

Sherlock didn't know how to remove his emotions from his data without simply deleting it all- and he didn't want to. He couldn't erase John. He might as well have tried to erase himself. John was a part of him. John was every reminder to be good, to take care of himself and Hamish. John needed to stay.

It was becoming increasingly obvious, however, that John needed to stay AWAY FROM THE DATA.

So Sherlock wandered. He moved things. He gathered memories and shifted them, placing them in other parts of his head.

They seemed to move back.

He growled.

Then he got it.

It was simple, so simple, and perfectly wonderful. A way to keep John from covering his work, a way to keep John from distracting him; another palace.

He started building right away.

He made it look like John's room. He forced information there. He added the building that they had solved their first crime together in. He stuffed in memories. He made a copy of John and Mary's flat and put in information about Hamish. He ran through his palace, picking up emotions and the locking them away in a new place.

It hurt like hell, to pick up the pieces of John in his head. Things he never had and never would forget assaulted him at every step.

The sound of John's voice when he was angry or sad. The taste of John's favorite tea. The feel of John's calloused hands checking Sherlock for bruises and cuts and scrapes after a rough case. The sound of John's laugh. The color of his eyes. It assaulted Sherlock- he could see it, feel it. At one point he was almost pinned in place by the memories, crucified, held down by a vivid image of John screaming his name. He fought him off. He locked him up.

His head ached. Tears streamed from his eyes. Every step he made was shadowed by the army doctor; every time he turned around John was there, making tea or writing a blog post of wielding a gun. It took a long time to feel like he had everything in order. Sherlock lay in the center of his own mind, watching, testing. He allowed nothing to flow from John's palace; no apparitions of the dead man, no noises, so scents or sounds. He allowed all his other data to move, to float, to reason and figure in the corners of his consciousness. He could see the two types of thoughts, and he made sure they could not touch. The two palaces blurred and shook- but remained separate. One was red and full of emotion. One was black and full of data.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

It was dark in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Hamish was gone and the telly was off- it must have been several hours.

Sitting in a chair across the room was Mycroft. Sherlock wiped his streaming eyes and sat up.

"Have you succeeded?" His older brother asked, keeping his voice low.

Sherlock stood, feeling two feet taller, feeling twice as solid. "Call Lestrade," he replied. "I need a case."


	10. Did He Ever Care at All?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one knows if Sherlock Holmes actually has a heart.

“The killer came through the window- look, you can see traces of mud on the sill from his trainers. He walked around this room once; picked up a book- don’t ask me how I know, if you’ll just look you’ll see it. He walked down the hallway here- more mud, seriously, how did you miss this? Entered the woman’s bedroom. Stood in the doorway for a long moment- maybe he was surprised. Maybe he was savoring the moment. She woke up and saw him- they fought, here, that’s where the blood on the carpet is from; from the angle I’d say it’s his, she must have cut him with one of her rings.”

“Rings?” Lestrade looked utterly confused.

“Look at the body- she was wearing rings, there are still indents on her fingers. Killer must have taken them. So she ran down the hallway away from him then, smearing the mud, slipped, fall down the stairs- broken neck. Killer takes what he wants and goes back out the window. So you see, Lestrade, it was a murder- well, attempted murder, but still successful in a way- and not an accident. I expect if you analyze the blood in her bedroom you’ll find your man- I’m assuming that’s why you called me? Because her blood wasn’t a match? At least you noticed that. The mud should have been obvious.”

“We- we thought the mud in the hallway was from the woman’s shoes. She had mud on her shoes.”

“If you had actually looked at it you would have seen that the mud in the hallway contains woodchips from the flowerbeds below the window, while the mud on her shoes does not.”

There was silence in the hallway for a long moment.

“I’m going home now. Call me when you have something new.”

Everyone raised their eyebrows and everyone watched him go. “It’s almost a though nothing’s happened,” someone whispered. No one had seen him at the case three months ago.

Donovan heard and let out a short, sharp laugh. “You know what he’s like. He probably didn’t even care about him after all.”

***

“Sherlock?”

“Shhhhhh… I’m just bringing you back up to the flat.”

Hamish was silent for a long moment; Sherlock assumed he’d fallen asleep until he saw the small crease between the boy’s eyebrows.

“Where did you go?” The little boy whispered. Sherlock paused on the steps and ducked his head to hear him. “You were gone when Mrs. Hudson and I went to bed…” He yawned. “Dad said…said you were going to be a hero.”

Sherlock swallowed-the boy was still seeing John?- then smiled slightly. “I was on a case.” He went up another step.

Hamish opened his eyes then, blinking slowly. “A real case?” He whispered. “Like with real crimes?”

Sherlock stopped again, frowning down at the boy in his arms. “The case files are real crimes too.”

Hamish waved a sleepy hand at Sherlock, accidentally bopping the older man’s nose. “Like a case that’s new,” he corrected sleepily. “That the police are still tryna figure out. Like the one with the woman with the muddy steps that you did last week.”

Sherlock finally stepped up on the landing. “Yes, a case that’s new. It was arson this time.” He shifted Hamish to one arm, trying to navigate one hand through the draping pieces of Hamish’s gown and his own long coat to reach the door handle. "It was the ex-boyfrind."

Hamish smiled. “Why haven’t you ever done real ones before?” He asked, blinking again. Sherlock could tell he was waking up. He tried to be quiet as he opened the door but Hamish wriggled in his arms.

“I have done ‘real ones’ before,” Sherlock replied, setting the boy on the couch before going to hang up his own coat. “Just not for a very long time.”

Hamish rolled over on the couch, trying to free his arms from the folds of the overlarge gown. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugged and dropped into his chair. “Haven’t wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t think.”

“Why?”

“I was being too emotional.”

“Why?”

“Because I kept thinking about your father.”

Hamish stopped rolling around on the couch and looked up. His blond hair was mussed but his eyes were clear as he looked across the room at the detective.

Sherlock just watched him back for a long moment. He had relaxed now and his mind was gently floating, allowing scientific thoughts and memories of John and a constant stream of deductions drift across his mind without any fuss.

But his focus was on Hamish.

The boy sat up solemnly. “Did you forget about my dad?”

Sherlock stilled. “Why would you think that?” He petted the arms of his chair with his pale fingers quickly, nervously. Forget John? _Never._

“You said you couldn’t work when you thought about Dad. Did you forget him so you could work?”

Sherlock inhaled slowly. The very heart of the matter. The same question everyone was asking, behind closed doors, inside quiet minds: did Sherlock really even care that John was gone?

There was staggering evidence to the contrary, he supposed. No one had seen him show any outward signs of grief except for Hamish and Mycroft, and even they were sent away when the greatest depression set in. He mourned in solitude. To any other outsider, it would seem he had shut himself up in the flat after John’s death and lived an impassive and unchanged life, with the addition of one five year old boy. There had been no drunken outings, no desperate midnight calls full of broken confessions or sobbed-out feelings. He was even solving cases. The world, so quick to believe that there had been love there, was now daring to guess that perhaps Sherlock Holmes had never cared about John Watson at all.

He hadn’t stopped to consider it before. It surprised him, how much it hurt.

No one had seen him, wandering around at midnight, desperately gasping in his cigarette smoke. No one had witnessed the way he would scream out suddenly, replying to a John that no one else could hear. No one was present when he awoke, panting, sobbing, frantically trying to drive away the nightmares full of hollow eyes and bloody blond hair and the slow backwards fall of John Watson’s body.

No one had felt Sherlock torturously divide John from his blessed work and root him in another half of his mind. No one had watched his hands shake when he looked at Hamish. No one had witnessed the world’s greatest detective swallow down the point of an army-issue gun before breaking into sobs and hiding it away before anyone else in the flat awoke.

So no one believed, anymore, that Sherlock had a heart.

Not even Hamish, it seemed.

Sherlock was tired suddenly, so tired, so _sick_ of it all.

“Hamish,” he said in a low voice, “look at me.”

The boy looked. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing, his grip tight on the chair, his chest rising and falling rapidly. There was tension, there was anger, there was sadness there. Hamish tried to not blink.

“I cared-“ Sherlock’s voice gave out and he paused, licking his lips, before continuing. “I cared about your father more than anything in the world.”

Hamish wanted to cry. He didn’t like the way Sherlock looked, so broken, and he didn’t understand the depth behind the words.

Sherlock’s eyes wandered away suddenly. “He was the best man- the bravest, the wisest, the kindest man- I have ever known.” He choked again, and it was a long moment before he could continue.

“I have never changed for anyone, Hamish.” The detective’s voice was just a whisper. “But John Watson forced me to. He saved my life. He revered my mind. He fought my demons. He won my battles. I owe him everything, _everything_.”

Hamish nodded, still not understanding, struck dumb with the sheer power behind the words.

“I care.” Sherlock’s voice was almost silent. “I could never forget him.”

Hamish started to cry, staring at the man across from him. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t move. He just stared, feeling the tears well up and spill over and soak him with a pain he didn’t understand.

“But I can’t not work. I will die, Hamish, I will _die_.” The detective twisted in his chair, looking desperately towards the young boy. “My mind will tear itself to pieces without the work, do you understand? And I cannot- I cannot work with John on my mind.” His voice was broken and ragged. “I haven’t forgotten your father, Hamish, but I had to separate him from the work. Do you understand, could you possibly understand?”

Hamish shook his head, gulping in a sob. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock just closed his eyes and turned his head away.

***

Mycroft was following Sherlock down the street.

Sherlock tried to ignore him but it was hard- the backbone of the British government did not follow its brothers around London at midnight for no good reason. He ached to take out a cigarette but knew that Mycroft wouldn't approve of that either.

Mycroft followed him as he wandered through the alleyways, down the streets, in and out of buildings.

London hummed slowly around them both, lit brightly even at this late hour.

Sherlock finally stopped under a streetlamp and let his brother catch up.

"If you're going to smoke I'll join you," was the first thing his brother said. "I'm gasping for a cigarette."

"Don't humanize yourself for my sake," Sherlock responded, staring across the street as he pulled the white box out of his jacket. "You always were better at curbing your addictions."

Mycroft shrugged and pulled out a lighter.

They smoked together silently, letting their breath pour out to join the darkness that pressed around them.

"I'm surprised you didn't send a car for me," Sherlock said finally, tapping his cigarette until ashes fell into the street. "This is hardly your style."

"I didn't thinking it would be appropriate to disrupt your reminiscence in that way."

"I'm not in reminiscing."

"Really? I was under the impression that people tended to do that on anniversaries such as this."

Sherlock scowled. "Six months hardly make an anniversary. Did you put a box around today in your little calendar?"

Mycroft did not answer for a long moment. He dragged at his cigarette instead, filling himself up with his brother's poison. "I hardly needed a box to remember."

Sherlock did not reply. He stared at London as she wound sleeplessly past, pushing people in cabs down the streets and hurrying people on foot out of shops and towards home. Life swirled around the Holmes brothers as they smoked. Sherlock hated it.

"You've had quite a month, haven't you?" Mycroft asked. "A birthday party, how fun. Splitting up your mind palace- bravo for that. Two cases in two weeks, good good, transparently easy, but progress...and then what? A fight with a five year old boy?"

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped. "It wasn't a fight like that."

"I'm sure."

There was another bitter silence.

"How is the boy?"

Sherlock spat, feeling ashes in his throat. " _Hamish_ is fine," he said sharply. "He doesn't know what today is."

Mycroft nodded. "I deduced as much. You don't seem the type to be overly sentimental towards children."

"It's a downfall when it comes to Hamish." Sherlock admitted quietly. "I make him upset with alarming regularity."

Mycroft breathed out heavily, tinting the air grey. "Children of that age are always upset," he pointed out. "I know you were."

"Yes, well, I think the whole point of this exercise is to make sure that Hamish _doesn't_ grow up like me, thanks," Sherlock snapped. "That's the last thing John would have wanted."

Mycroft gave his younger brother a long look. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

Sherlock coughed and dropped his cigarette in the street, grinding it underneath his foot. He did not look up as he fished another one out of his jacket.

"Do not worry, brother mine," Mycroft said in a low voice. "Hamish still thinks the world of you, and you're doing fine." He crushed his own cigarette beneath his shiny black shoes and turned away, blending back into the swirling mass of London with ease. Sherlock did not watch him go.


	11. When You Were Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all knew Hamish would have to be enrolled in school eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. You should all go back and re-read the last chapter; I rewrote it almost completely. The beginning and end are the same but the middle is completely different.
> 
> More and more lately I've been feeling that i need to fix a lot of things in this story so I will be constantly going back and changing and editing- once I finally finish it you ought to read it again, so that you get the whole story I'm intending.
> 
> Happy reading, hope you enjoy!

Sherlock hadn't known what day it was when he woke up. When Sherlock woke up it was with a gasp and a scream and an almost-shouted " _John!_ "

A dream. That was all. But it made Sherlock pant, made him clench his hands into pale fists and grit his teeth until they ached. Blue eyes streaming. Chest heaving. Head reeling.

No John above him. No army doctor down the hall, making tea. No friend sitting on the couch. No flatmate upstairs. And no one, not friend or flatmate or love-of-life standing in the doorway as Sherlock hyperventilated through the cold blue dawn.

Sherlock forced his jaw and his fists to open, letting himself fall into the pillows, wanting to drown but finding no options among the white fabric.

Arms outstretched. Staring at the ceiling. Crucified in place by the only thing he had ever loved.

It was as though John kneeled above him, pinning down his wrists, driving stakes through his heart. Sherlock could not breathe and could not move. His hands were open. His mouth was stretched open, yelling silently. Blackness and blueness and painful jolts of red were coursing through him, blocking his eyes, filling his ears, covering every inch of him with reminders that _YesJohnWatsonLivedAndNoHeDidNotLoveYou._

Sherlock sobbed.

It was short and sharp, a staccato shot of broken glass. His chest ached and burned. His eyes spilled over. His hands jerked and finally, finally, he could move.

The pain and colors and noise disappeared.

Sherlock lay there panting. One broken sob and John's silent, crushing presence had disappeared. He could feel again, feel the sore tension in his hands, the awful ache in his chest, the hot and cold lines of tears curving down his face to mix with his messy curls. He could feel. He could breathe. But John was gone.

Sherlock breathed deeply, mouth open wide, carefully and slowly letting his mind come to grips with all of the information hovering just behind his eyes.

There was a knock at the door of the flat.

***

Mycroft had always insisted on kidnapping John to talk to him, before. Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times Mycroft had actually come to see John instead of using veiled threats and a black car to cart him away somewhere abandoned and creepy.

When it came to Sherlock, however, Mycroft never dared.

Possibly because he knew that Sherlock would often rather brawl with the guards and cause a scene rather than go and see his brother.

If there was one thing Mycroft hated, it was causing a scene.

The thought made Sherlock smirk as he looked across at his brother, running his fingers slowly down the strings of his violin. Mycroft sat in John’s chair, watching everything silently.

Hamish was on the couch, colouring something, covering the cushions with flecks of wax that would make Mrs. Hudson cringe.

“You know why I’m here, of course.” Mycroft was still looking around the flat as he spoke, no doubt deducing and extrapolating from the things he saw. 

Sherlock tilted his head slightly and refocused on the violin. “That was one mystery I was completely uninterested in solving.” He punctuated the remark with a sharp pluck on one of the strings.

Hamish hummed the note unconsciously.

_Near perfect pitch at five years old. Heard the sound and reacted immediately. Not focused on our conversation but still absorbing it. Shows heightened levels of observation from this time last year-_

“Sherlock.”

The detective looked back at his brother and raised an eyebrow. Three sharp plucks on a different string; Mycroft leaned back, lines appearing between his eyebrows for the first time.

_Heightened irritation. Good. Wonder if sharpness or flatness of the note affects level of irritation or just number. Will need further data._

“You’re feeling better, I can tell,” Mycroft says with one of his mocking smiles, determinedly erasing all signs of irritation from his body.

“Yes.” Two more plucks. G#

_No response. Possible inward decision to disregard violin noise. Will try harder._

Hamish was humming again, not the disjointed individual notes but a song of his own creation. He blinked down at the colouring papers.

Mycroft was still smiling. “Maybe now you’ll see enough reason to relinquish your beloved cigarettes into my care?”

_Moved his arms to create a barrier. This is not the reason he’s come._

“No need.” Sherlock gave up on plucking the violin and let it lay across his lap. “I’ve already disposed of them.”

“And your emergency supply?”

Sherlock looked away pointedly. Mycroft let out an amused sound.

_Unwilling to talk about whatever brought him here._

“Why are you here, Mycroft?”

The smile fell. Mycroft just looked at him for a long moment, face blank, hands unusually still. Then he tapped his umbrella twice and cleared his throat. “Hamish is five, Sherlock.”

“Brilliant. You ought to be the detective, Mycroft, you’ve clearly gotten a corner of the market for deduction-“

_”Sherlock.”_

Sherlock smirked and plucked the violin again, watching his brother breathe deeply in an attempt to calm down.

_Dieting again. Not going well. Aching for sugar and a cigarette. How quaint._

“Sherlock, do you remember what happened when you were five?”

Sherlock made a face at his brother and closed his eyes.

Mycroft waited.

“To what are you referring?” Sherlock asked slowly. “I can think of a number of things significant to me that occurred when I was five but none of them would have brought you here today.”

“School, Sherlock.”

The detective’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Sherlock-“

_”No.”_

Hamish looked up, hands going still.

Mycroft was speaking in a low voice. “You can’t expect him to just stay here with you all day until he’s an adult, Sherlock.”

Sherlock clutched at the violin more strongly, letting his fingers slide and press down the strings. “I know that,” he snapped, “but I’ll hardly agree to letting him do something as pointless and frustrating as what I went through as a child.”

“He won’t have to, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was low and frustrated. “I already have a school picked out; he’ll be receiving a good education and it’s not too far from here-“

“Hell, what does it matter?” Sherlock growled, pulling himself abruptly to a standing position. He towered over his brother. “No matter where he goes he’ll have incompetent teachers filling his head with incorrect information and ghastly little children ganging up on hi-“

_”Sherlock.”_ Mycroft moved to his feet as well and jerked his head sharply to the side, eyes flaring.

Sherlock looked and saw Hamish watching them, wide-eyed, mouth open.

_Afraid. Shocked. Sitting back on his heels away from the paper- been listening to us for some time. Estimated entry into conversation set at about three minutes ago-_

“Hamish,” Mycroft said. His voice was level but his knuckles were white on the hand holding the umbrella. “Do you want to go to school?”

Hamish swallowed, eyes moving slowly back and forth between the two brothers. “No, sir,” he said quietly.

_Sir?_

Sherlock turned to his brother triumphantly, throwing an arm out in Hamish’s direction. “You see? Completely uninterested. Thank you for your-“

“Because we’re letting the five-year-old decide, of course,” Mycroft snapped back. “Though I daresay he’d make a better-educated decision about this than you would. Now _sit down_ , Sherlock, and stop talking.”

Sherlock glared and he sat down, slowly. Mycroft turned to Hamish once more.

“Hamish?” His voice was gentle. “Why don’t you want to go to school?”

Hamish shot a look at Sherlock and then carefully set his face into an impassive mask. “I just don’t want to,” he said clearly.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock frowned.

_Hiding emotions behind a neutral expression. Must have picked it up from me. Dear god. John would hate this._

“You have to, actually. It’s not really up for discussion.” Mycroft’s voice was firm.

“Why did you ask him then?” Sherlock growled, turning to his brother.

Mycroft didn’t take his eyes off of Hamish. “I was hoping he might be reasonable enough to agree with me.” His voice was icy. “I underestimated your influence on him. Children are always so foolishly sentimental about their caretakers.”

Hamish’s expression didn’t change but Sherlock closed his eyes.

_Slight tightening of the jaw, slight narrowing of the eyes. Would not have noticed if I had not seen the same expression on John so often. On this particular face: signs of distress, not anger, but hurt. Understands what Mycroft is saying; is offended-no, saddened- by it. Has a grasp of sentimentality and has formed a bad opinion. Probably my fault._

“That’s enough, Mycroft.”

The umbrella tapped on the floor three times. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked straight at Hamish, sitting quietly on the couch in front of the two men.

“You will have your first day of school exactly one week from today. I’ll send Anthea over with supplies. Do try to wake him up on time, Sherlock.”

Mycroft was already at the door by the time Sherlock fully absorbed his words and spun around to face him.

“Who the HELL are you to come in here and dictate what Hamish does?” Sherlock snarled, stalking forward to sneer in his brother’s face.

Mycroft took a delicate and mocking step back. “I’m a government official,” he replied smoothly. “And refusing to send children to school is against the law.”

And the door shut in Sherlock’s face.


	12. If At First You Don't Succeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can little Hamish function in a normal school after being under the influence of the Holmes brothers for so long?

There were an awful amount of markers, but the colors were blended and blackened from too many children mixing colors. The pencils were all dull and broken. The crayons were even worse.

Hamish decided that Sherlock had been right, about school being useless.

The detective (yawning widely, hands shoved deep into his coat, eyes narrowed and red) had brought him to the little brown school early that morning. They had taken a cab and Sherlock had been silent the whole time. Once they’d arrived Sherlock had terrorized someone into taking them to the right classroom, where he engaged in a short and vicious-looking conversation with the teacher in a blue skirt before sweeping out. He hadn’t said goodbye.

Hamish wished he would have.

There were twenty other children in the class, by Hamish’s rough count (there were actually probably more, he thought to himself, but he had only learned how to count to twenty and only that because of a particular numbered list of suspects Sherlock had been reading aloud over and over the week before). He had to sit at a table with five others.

They had gone around and said their names and when Hamish had said his the teacher had frowned but said nothing. 

Now he was trying to color.

But the girl across from him with braids that her mother must have done had the only good red crayon and the teacher didn’t look at him as often as at everyone else and the boy next to him was crying because he missed his mother and Hamish wanted to tell him “caring isn’t an advantage” but he didn’t think Mycroft would like that being repeated.

His picture was going to come out all wrong.

He was trying to draw a house with a body on the doorstep (Sherlock had been talking on the phone to Lestry about it before he noticed Hamish was listening) but he didn’t have enough red.

He started to crumple up the paper.

A hand on his head stopped him suddenly. “H-Hamish?” The teacher paused on his name again. “What are you doing?”

***

“Care to explain why I’m here?”

Hamish froze. Mycroft sounded bored and irritated and that was never a good combination.

“I- uh, I dunno.”

He could see Mycroft’s black shoes and the tip of his umbrella but didn’t dare raise his head. Mycroft tapped one foot.

“He was in the middle of an experiment,” the older man said quietly. “I told him I’d come see what the fuss was about.”

“’M sorry,” Hamish said quietly.

“It is of little consequence.”

The office room was awfully quiet, but Hamish felt a little better now that Mycroft was here. The older Holmes brother scared him but he was better than the teacher with the blue skirt.

Hamish had been sitting in the green chair for absolute _ages_. Hopefully now that Mycroft was here they could go home.

But the older man remained standing, unmoving, in front of his chair.

The door opened suddenly. “Hamish? Mr. Holmes? You can come in now.” It was a woman in a grey skirt, holding a clipboard, with her head poked through the doorway. Her hair fell in wisps around her face.

“Who do we have to go see?” Hamish asked worriedly, looking up as he slid out of the chair.

“Just the headmaster.”

Mycroft’s face was carefully composed and impassive. Hamish tried to make his face do the same thing. They walked through the door.

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

The headmaster was tall and dark and thick, wearing a black suit and a loosened tie. His shirt cuffs were unbuttoned. Mycroft stepped forward to shake his hand and Hamish trailed behind.

“Mycroft Holmes, actually.” His voice was smooth and pleasant. “My brother was indisposed. I am here in his stead.”

“Ah.” The headmaster observed the two of the briefly- the tall man in the light suit with a black umbrella, the little boy with the blond hair- and then waved towards two chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, won’t you?”

Mycroft stepped forward but remained standing. “You can have a seat, Hamish,” he said smoothly. “I prefer to stand.”

Hamish climbed quietly up into the blue chair. The headmaster looked red in the face; he stood still, looking at Mycroft for a long moment. Mycroft smiled pleasantly. The headmaster sat in his own chair behind the desk.

“I assume he’s told you why you’re here?” The headmaster began, nodding at Hamish with his eyes on the standing man.

“No, actually,” Mycroft replied. “I assumed it was a trivial affair.”

The headmaster huffed. “Not quite, I’m afraid.” He waited for Mycroft’s expression to change but it did not, so he continued. “He severely distressed one of his teachers by drawing a picture of- what was it again?” He snapped his fingers in Hamish’s direction.

Hamish flushed. His voice was barely a whisper as he said: “A body on a doorstep.”

“Yes, exactly.” The headmaster leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “He then called the teacher incompetent, when questioned about what it was he was doing.”

Hamish fidgeted, head down. Mycroft spared him a searching glance before turning back to the headmaster. “And this is a cause for concern because…?”

***

“I told you he shouldn’t go to school.” Sherlock muttered, not looking up from his microscope as his Mycroft and Hamish entered the flat. “What happened?”

Mycroft walked slowly across the room and settled into the red armchair. Hamish stood, uncertain, before going quietly to the couch.

“He took his teacher to task for her lack of understanding,” Mycroft muttered wearily. “She took offence. As did the headmaster, when I told him that his affair with his secretary was unprofessional and inappropriate when surrounded by so many children.”

Sherlock snorted.

“He will have to go back, you realize.”

Hamish curled into a ball, hiding his face in the couch cushion. He could hear Sherlock shift in his chair, hear the annoyance in the detective’s voice as he asked, “And why is that?”

Mycroft just sounded tired. “He still needs an education. I presumed he would be more comfortable in a public setting but I think private school may be more to his taste.”

“He’s five.” Sherlock’s chair creaked and then there were footsteps in the kitchen. “Do they even have private schools for boys that young?”

Hamish kept his face hidden. He hadn’t liked school all that much. He didn’t want to go back.

“Don’t be so critical, Sherlock. School will be good for him.”

The couch dipped suddenly and Hamish was shifted onto his back. Sherlock had settled next to him. “Did you like school, Hamish?” He asked awkwardly, blinking down at the young boy. “Before all the foolishness with the teacher?”

“She got a funny look on her face whenever she said my name,” Hamish said quietly. It was all he could think of at that moment. He didn’t think Sherlock would care about the smudged markers or the crying boy.

“’Hamish’ is not the name on your records,” Mycroft said from across the room. “We’ll have that explained to the staff of wherever you go next.”

Hamish was still looking up at Sherlock. “Do I have to go?” He whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed but he nodded, then stood up abruptly. “Yes, it seems that you must,” he said. He shook his head, eyes closed. “Excuse me. I don’t feel well.”

He stalked out of the room.

Hamish felt cold. He sat up and looked across at Mycroft, who was frowning down at his umbrella.

Hamish waited until he looked up again to begin speaking. “He doesn’t like me very much, does he?”

“What?” Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Why on earth would you say that?”

Hamish shuffled his feet. “He gets sad when I talk,” he muttered. “And he always leaves.”

Mycroft was silent for a long moment. It was worse than sitting in the office at school, worse than the silence that spread through the classroom when the teacher had yelled. Hamish closed his eyes and bit his lip.

“Sherlock cares about you very much,” Mycroft said finally. Hamish opened his eyes and looked at him. “You remind him of your father, and sometimes that hurts him. But he does care.” Mycroft stood up slowly from the armchair. “However irrational that may be.”

Hamish nodded and looked down again. There was another silence.

“Would you like me to take you down to Mrs. Hudson’s?”

Hamish didn’t look up as he nodded and slipped off the couch. “Yes, please.”

***

_I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I can’t do this anymore oh god John I’m so sorry please come back I’ll do anything I’ll do anything if you would just come back to me even if you still lived with Mary I just need you back oh please come back nothing is the same and the cases are harder to solve and my head is splitting, it’s always splitting open and it hurts so much please John please come back to me I can’t do this on my own and he looks so much like you oh god he looks like you and I never knew how to care about anyone but I care about him and I care about you just please come back to I can prove it oh god please come back-_


	13. Richard of York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just have to remember how to connect with people.

“They’re like blocks.”

“What?”

Hamish’s breath made little clouds in front of his face and he danced from foot to foot, trying to stay warm. “They look like building blocks, like the ones Mrs. Hudson gave me for Christmas.”

Sherlock looked out at the skyline and back at Hamish. “She gave you building blocks for Christmas?”

“Yeah.” The little boy looked up at him, expressionless. “You were out on a case that day.”

Sherlock frowned.

He was on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s, trying to judge the distance between the door of the building and the ambulance bay. Hamish, in a small black pea coat that had been a gift from Mycroft, was hopping up and down next to him with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Which case?”

Hamish shrugged. “Not sure. You brought home a jar of yellow stuff with you at the end, though.”

_Oh. That one._

Hamish continued to jump in place. Sherlock watched him for a long moment and then looked back out across the city.

“They do look like blocks, don’t they,” he said slowly.

Hamish stilled, and then looked up. “Yeah.” He gave a small smile. “I- I tried to recreate it once but I couldn’t remember the order.”

It hit Sherlock, then, how long it had been since he’d seen Hamish smile. _John would hate me._ The boy was only six and he was hiding his emotions almost constantly.

But he had smiled, up on the dim rooftop, cold and jumping from foot to foot with his hands in his pockets. And his coat looked a lot like Sherlock’s but everything else- his eyes, his hair, his mouth- was reminiscent of his parents.

Now Hamish was looking out towards the taller buildings again, impassive once more. Sherlock looked with him.

“It might help you remember if you make a mnemonic about it,” Sherlock said casually.

Hamish looked up again. “A what?”

“A mnemonic.” Sherlock felt a memory spin to the forefront of his mind, of a young Mycroft teaching him the very same thing. “A learning technique that aids information retention.”

“Information what?”

“Retention- it means it helps you remember things.” Sherlock paced towards the edge of the roof, eyes closed, smiling as he sifted through his own examples. He stopped and opened his eyes, stepping up onto the edge before him. “They’re a little silly, most of the time, but they’re quick for remembering things.”

Hamish stepped up onto the edge with him and looked down onto the street. The wind blew his coat forward gently, almost in sync with the movement of Sherlock’s.

“You’ve learned one already, I’m sure.” Sherlock continued. “They teach it to all school children, can’t imagine why, and I never bothered to delete it. It’s-“

“Richard of York Gave Battle In Vain?” Hamish asked with a grin.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What?”

“It’s for remembering the colors of the rainbow.” The little boy looked slightly incredulous now. “Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Indigo Violet. Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath and turned, stalking along the edge of the building. “Why would anyone need to remember the colors of the rainbow? How could you forget them?”

Hamish, with a glance down to the street, followed him, placing his feet slowly on the stone ledge. “I dunno,” he replied freely. “They just told us that. But I didn’t know it was called a nem- a nemno-“

“Mnemonic,” Sherlock finished for him. He stopped again and looked down into the street.

Hamish looked down too. They stood like statues on the top of St. Bartholomew’s, coats being blown about them, stark figures against the cloudy sky.

“Do you like this school better?”

Hamish shrugged slightly, eyes fixed on the open air before him. “It’s got better markers.”

Sherlock glanced at him, narrowing his eyes, but gave up trying to decode the words. He looked out over London instead, breathing in steadily. The air was clear and cold and his toes were right over the edge of the building and he loved it, he loved this feeling of being right on the edge.

It made him feel alive. It made him feel like the strings of his violin, strong and steady and loud, and London was the bow.

But it was a feeling particular to him.

Hamish stepped down off the ledge, turning his head away from the drop. “I don’t want to fall,” he explained quietly, when Sherlock shot him a look. “It seems like an awfully long way down.”

Sherlock almost laughed. _Keep your eyes fixed on me._

“It’s not so bad.” He watched the shadowy street for a long moment. “Not if you’re prepared to do anything.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock stepped back off the ledge beside Hamish.

_How fitting, to be on the rooftop where I died on the anniversary of the day John died._

The boy was looking at the skyline once more, lips moving silently as he considered the buildings. Sherlock couldn’t help a small smile as he watched the boy concentrate, one which Hamish returned when he looked back up at the detective.

“Ready to go?”

Hamish nodded and they began to walk back across the rooftop, footsteps tapping quietly, coats blowing behind them.

“What was the mnemonic they taught you, anyhow?” Hamish asked as they reached the door that led back into the hospital. Sherlock paused as he held it open.

“LEO the lion goes GER.” He smiled fondly. “It’s for remembering redox reactions- chemical reactions, you know, whether they gain or lose electrons.”

Hamish shook his head, smiling again. Sherlock didn’t know why but he didn’t question it; he was just glad it was happening.

_John would love to see him like this._

_Well. Maybe not on the rooftop of Bart’s._


	14. How It Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is always a choice to be made around Sherlock Holmes; a safe and normal lifestyle or something far more dangerous. Hamish doesn't realize yet that the decision is being made for him.

“Hamish is line leader today!”

The other children looked around and smiled and Hamish flushed, feeling happy. He _never_ got to be line leader. When the teacher read out the list of names his name _always_ came last, because he was a Watson-Holmes.

The other children always asked why he had two last names. He didn’t know how to tell them that one belonged to Dad and one belonged to Sherlock, so he said nothing at all.

But today he was line leader. That meant that whenever the class went anywhere, to the art room or down to the cafeteria, he got to be first, right behind the teacher.

“Can we go somewhere now?”

The teacher- she was much better than the woman in the blue skirt had been, though not as smart as Sherlock- just smiled and shook her head. She was always very happy and warm towards the children and Hamish knew it was because she had grown children of her own that she missed.

The first grade classroom was bright and open, with a light grey carpet and white walls plastered with bright, messy artwork. The desks were set into neat rows, facing the teacher’s large wooden desk, which was always in perfect order. There were books on wooden shelves at the back of the room, and the books were nothing like Sherlock’s; they had bright pictures instead of anatomical diagrams, pretty covers that weren’t made of dark leather, large print that was a far cry from the tiny tiny words Sherlock always pored over.

And the markers here were excellent.

It was January and sleet was hitting the window of the classroom, but Hamish was warm in his red sweater (a late present from Sherlock). The class was working through a maths problem, simple addition, written in large letters on sheets of white paper.

Hamish had seen Sherlock add numbers without paper before and it made him feel clumsy, to try and work it out with a pencil, but he couldn’t make the numbers sit right in his mind. So he worked and tried not to let the gray lead smudge and thought about being line leader.

And the sleet hit the window.

He was sleepy- Sherlock had been up late the night before, alternately playing the violin and lighting things on fire in the kitchen- and Hamish had stayed up with him as long as he could. The detective was on a case, Hamish knew, but it was a difficult one and it made Sherlock seem paler and more wired than usual.

_2+2=4…_   
_12+3=15…_

Sherlock had brought him to school in a rush that morning, muttering to himself in the cab and hardly bidding Hamish goodbye when they reached the doors.

Hamish no longer minded.

At the beginning of the year he had watched other parents bring their children right to the classroom and chat with the teacher before leaving and it had made him feel sad, that Sherlock always left him at the front of the building each morning while he swept away in his dark coat. But he knew his way around the school better than anyone now, because he walked it so often on his own, and besides, Sherlock was different from the other parents so he couldn’t be expected to do the same things. No one else’s parents took them up on rooftops to look at the city. No one else’s parents kept awesome things like human eyes in the fridge. No one else’s parents kept their kids home occasionally to help hold things for experiments.

So Hamish wasn’t bothered anymore.

And only occasionally did it happen that he woke up in Mrs. Hudson’s to find that Sherlock had fled in the night and Mycroft would be taking him to school.

(Mycroft never even got out of the cab when he dropped him off. Sometimes he even sent Anthea instead, who was very pretty and made Hamish feel shy.)

But Sherlock had dropped him off that morning, and he had been doing experiments the night before, and Hamish was line leader today so everything was okay.

_8+3=11…_

The door opened.

Hamish was the only one who looked up, alert and aware as ever, while the other students just continued to work quietly. Even the teacher was still engrossed in her computer. She didn’t see Mycroft standing in the doorway.

But Hamish did. And he felt his hands freeze (Sherlock always said that was the trademark of someone faced with danger or a surprise). And he wasn’t done with maths and he was supposed to be line leader today and it was _so unfair_.

“Hamish,” Mycroft said softly. The other students looked up then, as did the teacher, but Hamish was already rising slowly out of his seat and going to fetch his coat from his place on the coat rack.

The teacher went to Mycroft, brow furrowed and arms crossed, but as Hamish pulled on his long black coat and blue mittens he saw her step back again and offer Mycroft a smile. Mycroft was smiling too but Hamish could read tension underneath it. A fake smile. (Sherlock said you just had to look at the eyes to see those.)

Hamish shuffled slowly to the doorway where Mycroft waited. The older man looked solemn.

They both ignored the teacher’s cheery farewell. Hamish stepped across the threshold and let Mycroft close the classroom door behind him.

“I was supposed to be line leader today.”

Mycroft didn’t move away from the door, studying Hamish with tired eyes, tapping his umbrella gently on the ground.

“Sherlock’s been hurt.”

“Why do I have to leave early?”

“Because at the moment, that’s just the way of things.” Mycroft held out a hand. “Come along.”

Hamish knew better than to take the offered hand. He just walked along with Mycroft as the older man started down the hallway.

“I was supposed to be line leader,” Hamish said again quietly. He _never_ got to be line leader.

Mycroft didn’t stop but his expression softened. “I’m sorry, Hamish. But as you’re well aware, there are sacrifices that we have to make for the lifestyle we live.”

“What’s wrong with Sherlock?”

They reached the doors of the school. Mycroft sighed in irritation as they stepped out into the foul weather.

“He was investigating in the neighborhood of a suspect and decided that the man needed to be arrested immediately- forgetting, of course, that he didn’t have the authorization to do so.”

“Did he handcuff the man again? Lestry gets mad when he does that.”

“Lestrade.” Mycroft led Hamish to a shiny black car waiting in the road. “And no, he didn’t. The man hit him in the back of the head with a baseball bat first.”

“So he got away?” Hamish hopped into the car and bounced a little on the seat.

Mycroft followed, brushing snow off of his coat with a frown. “Yes. And Sherlock wants you home.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s hurt, and he said you’d be able to help.”


	15. Unstability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish is simultaneously oversheltered and overexposed. Sherlock makes a confession. Mycroft makes dinner. And everything in 221B gets a little bit brighter.

_Two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs; lighter steps started first, so one lighter person walking in front of another. Lighter person is moving more quickly, heavier person is tapping something on each step as they come up. Conclusion: Hamish first, with too much energy, followed by Mycroft with that damnable umbrella._

Sherlock groaned.

_Must have fallen asleep. Set estimated time of unconsciousness at forty-five minutes. Dangerous after a blow to the head; what would John say?_

"Sherlock!"

_Yes, probably just that._

The detective opened his eyes just as Hamish pushed through the door and stopped abruptly, staring. The boy's eyes were wide; he bit his lip. _Upset about something, but more focused on me at the moment._ "Are you all right?" Hamish whispered, dropping his backpack and pacing over to the couch.

Sherlock nodded. "I'm fine. I trust it was all right for you to leave school?"

Hamish's eyes darted down, then left. "Yeah, s'fine." He muttered. Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn't pursue it.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway and paused. "My, my." He said smoothly. "You're a bit of a mess."

"Piss off." Sherlock shifted, slowly levering himself up into a sitting position. "I fell asleep."

"Isn't that rather dangerous?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Why is it dangerous?"

Sherlock huffed. "It's not, Hamish." He looked up at his brother. "It was less than an hour. Not enough to warrant concern even if I did have a concussion, which I'm nearly positive I don't."

"I assume you haven't been to a doctor?" Mycroft tapped his umbrella slowly on the ground. Sherlock just scoffed.

"Sherlock?" Hamish was tugging on his white shirtsleeve, still standing next to the detective where he sat on the couch. "Why did I have to come home?" He was biting his lip again.

"Oh, right. I need you to help me bandage the back of my head."

Hamish blinked, then nodded. "I'll get the first aid kit," he offered, then bounced into the kitchen towards the bathroom.

Mycroft hoisted his umbrella and pointed the tip at Sherlock, quivering slightly. "You brought him home for _that_?" The older man hissed. "You should have seen him when I picked him up; he didn't want to leave."

_That explains it._

"Of course that's not the only reason why," Sherlock snapped back, unbuttoning the cuffs on his white shirtsleeves; he didn't want them to get bloody. "It's not exactly a secret that Hamish is mine now, and I didn't fancy having my friend with the bat go after him."

"Completely irrational," Mycroft snarled back, his face hardening further in anger. "He would have been safe at school."

"He's safer here."

"Sherlock, you can't-"

They both straightened abruptly as Hamish's soft footsteps started again, bringing him back from the bathroom. He entered the room with a large white plastic case wrapped in his arms. "How did you keep it from bleeding out before now?" The boy asked curiously, dumping the case on the coffee table.

"Put a pad of cloth on it," Sherlock muttered. "It'll probably start bleeding again when you take it off. Did you wash your hands?"

Hamish nodded.

"For god's sakes, he's not John!" Mycroft shouted suddenly.

Sherlock flew to his feet and grabbed at Mycroft, pushing him against the doorframe in a rage, ignoring Hamish's gasp of surprise and fear. "I am well aware of that," he hissed in his brother's ear, pitching his voice as low as he could so Hamish wouldn't hear. "I'm not asking him to play doctor. I just need the blood cleaned away."

"He's five," Mycroft hissed back, equally quiet.

"I was dissecting frogs by the time I was five," Sherlock snarled. "He's not afraid of blood and it's a valuable skill to have; what's the issue?"

"The issue," and Mycroft whacked the side of his brother's leg with the umbrella, "is that you're exposing him to a multitude of horrible things that he's not ready for, Sherlock! He should be trying to live a normal life, not chasing after you on buildings or helping your experiments or cleaning up your blood!"

Sherlock gripped his brother's shoulders even more tightly, forcing him back against the wooden doorframe until Mycroft winced in pain. "His life wouldn't have been normal even if John had stayed alive," Sherlock growled. "Hamish knew how to clean his father's gun by the time he was four, for god's sakes. We are not normal, and this is not normal, and nothing in his life will ever be normal, so why should I lie to him?"

"To protect him!"

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "Because calling him home from school to keep him out of danger is the opposite of protection, I'm sure."

"That's not all you've done," Mycroft panted. He didn't like how close Sherlock's face was to his, how angry those grey eyes were. "I saw the surveillance of you two up on St. Bartholomew's- have you lost your mind? And the experiments, and the state of the flat, and the way you just _run off_ -"

Sherlock swung his brother out onto the landing and slammed the door behind himself, taking them out of Hamish's hearing and sight. "Tell me again, Mycroft, what I'm doing wrong?" Sherlock snarled. "It's a rooftop, not a firefight! He was in no danger, and he never is around my experiments, and what do you _mean_ the state of the flat? It's fine! And I only leave when I'd do more harm by staying here!"

Mycroft stared. "What-" his voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat impatiently. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think this is easy?" Sherlock spread his arms out, indicating his bloody head and red face and the flat behind them and, it seemed, the entire world. "Don't you think I have to stop myself from calling out John's name when I see Hamish move out of the corner out of my eye? Don't you think I see the way Hamish tries to mimic us, hide his emotions the way we do? John would _hate_ that. _I_ hate it. So I'm trying, Mycroft!" His voice was cracking now too, shattering around every word like glass. "I'm trying to make it okay for him, I'm trying to keep myself emotionally stable so that he can be, too."

Mycroft felt like he could hardly breathe.

Sherlock knew his eyes were red, and he let his arms drop, swallowing down his pride and revealing his weakness to his brother. "You told me it was impossible to remain emotionally distant in this case, and you're right," he forced out. "I have to keep myself open to him in a way I've never tried to before and it hurts like hell. I can feel it all, Mycroft-" _damn this body, this weak weak body, making me cry_ "-I can feel anger and sorrow and grief, so much grief, you have no idea-" He swallowed and closed his eyes, feeling the damnable tears coursing down his face.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, focusing on the air above his brother's head. "I brought him home because I was afraid."

Mycroft didn't respond.

"And yes, when my injuries aren't bad I ask him to help me- do you want to know why? So that someday- if he ever gets injured-" Sherlock broke off, trying to steady his breathing, looking anywhere but at his brother. "So that if he needs to, he can care for himself."

The pockets of silence between each word seemed deep enough to drown in.

"Sometimes I run away just so I can shut up the emotions and think." Sherlock dropped his head, feeling vulnerable and foolish before his brother for the first time since he was thirteen. "I know I'm not any good at this, Mycroft- but I'm trying."

There were noises all around the two brothers- shuffles from Hamish moving slowly in the flat, muffled footsteps from downstairs, the sounds of London outside- but Sherlock felt like he was in a void, removed from everything around him; unable to deduce, unable to think, unable to even move as he stood on the landing with his face wet with tears.

Mycroft finally shifted slightly, hands tightening on his umbrella briefly.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his head and stared, eyes locked with his brother's. They searched each other's eyes, reading every movement, following every thought the other had. _I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying,_ Sherlock seemed to be saying. Mycroft's eyes, in turn told him _I know, I know. It's all okay._

***

Hamish wrinkled his nose. "I didn't know you could cook."

Mycroft gave the boy a tight smile over one shoulder as he finished setting plates on the table. "I rarely do," he replied. His suit coat and umbrella had been abandoned in the red armchair and his vest and shirtsleeves were dusted with flour.

"He didn't cook anything," Sherlock groused, coming into the kitchen and settling into one of the chairs. He had a fresh bandage on the back of his head and was wrapped in his red dressing gown. "He called in Anthea while we went to the store, Hamish."

"But the flour-"

"Come one, you know the answer to that." Sherlock interrupted the boy. "I solemnly swear that Mycroft did no cooking- you should be able to tell where that's from."

Hamish frowned at the older man as he finished setting small plates of food onto the table and sat down with them.

"It's not flour, is it?" Sherlock and Mycroft both cracked a smile, shaking their heads. "Then it's from one of your experiments- one of the ones he moved off of the table."

"Right in one," Sherlock said proudly. "It was my white lead."

Mycroft shook his head as he began to eat. "I still can't believe you had that in the kitchen."

Hamish giggled as he poked his fork into the food. It was good- he should have known it hadn't been made by Mycroft. For a long moment the only sounds in 221B were the clicks of silverware on plates and the sound of the three of them chewing.

"This is almost disgustingly domestic," Mycroft finally muttered, frowning.

"Completely." Sherlock nodded shortly, then scowled down at the table. "And where on earth did you move my microscope to?"


	16. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's school, and then there's Sherlock. Between the two Hamish is bound to learn something.

_February 1-June 30_

"What do you mean, teach me?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope. "The education you're receiving at that abhorrent private school-"

"I like my school."

"As I was saying- I'll admit that the things they're teaching you are vaguely useful and relevant. But there is more you need to learn."

Hamish swung his feet. He was perched on a wooden stool in the corner of the kitchen, out of Sherlock's way but able to see the experiments as they smoked and bubbled. "What else is there?"

Sherlock twisted a dial on the side of his microscope and peered into it again. "Remind me of the topics you're learning right now."

"Well there's math- that's just adding and subtracting, but she's also teaching us Noman numerals-"

"Teaching you _what_?"

"Noman numerals, you know, like I is one and X is ten..."

"Roman numerals, Hamish."

"Oh."

Sherlock leaned away from the microscope to scrawl a row of neat figures on the paper next to him. "What else?" He prompted.

Hamish looked up at the ceiling, frowning slightly. "We work on reading a lot," he said slowly. "Some kids are still working on the really short books, you know, but I have an actual chapter book."

Sherlock smirked. _Chapter book indeed- the whole book was barely ten pages._ "That's good."

"It helps, you know," Hamish went on slowly. "I read better than anyone else in the class- teacher said it's because you sit down and read with me so much."

Sherlock looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "How does she know that?"

"I told her." Hamish shrugged. "I just didn't mention that they were case files. My old teacher, the one with the blue skirt, she got upset when I mentioned a case."

"That's because the case in question involved a murdered body on a doorstep, which you decided to draw in great detail," Sherlock muttered, turning back to the microscope.

"That was barely a seven."

"It turned out to be an eight."

"Why, the man with the baseball bat?"

"No, that was actually unconnected- Hamish, you're not allowed to hear about the murder cases." Sherlock sat back again and shot the boy a stern look. "You remember what we talked about when Mycroft was here."

Hamish rolled his eyes. "No murder cases, no visiting crime scenes, no going on rooftops until I'm at least six, nothing in the dangerous substances directive left uncovered in the kitchen, no answering your cell phone, no helping with injuries that aren't just surface wounds, no-"

"You obviously remember it all," Sherlock cut him off pointedly, "so why are you trying to get around it?"

Hamish shrugged. "The murder cases are more interesting," he replied. "Robberies are just because people want money, but murders happen for all sorts of reasons."

Sherlock had to smile. _Look at this, John- your son is more like me than you realized._

"And if you're not going to teach me about murders, what else is there to teach me?"

"Oh, right," Sherlock muttered. He stood up, crossing to the sink and collecting his test tubes. "My initial point was that, while you are undoubtedly learning valuable lessons in school, there are things that I believe are more practical that you should learn as well- but no murders."

"What then?"

Sherlock sat down. "A little of everything. The best place to start is with observation, I believe- a pity you're only five, or we could start with chemistry."

"I'll be six in June."

"Irrelevant. You're not allowed to work with open flames until you're ten, and Mycroft advised that you stay away from chemical compounds until then as well."

Hamish huffed and crossed his arms.

"It's for the best," Sherlock muttered, slipping away from the conversation as he poured water and silver nitrate into the first test tube. "Wouldn't want you to- oh, I need more silver nitrate..."

***

There were several drawing pinned to the door of the flat- all of the same scene, drawn over and over in different colors on different scraps of paper.

Hamish was working on another one, his small hand wrapped around the pencil he'd filched from Sherlock. "Why do I have to do this again?"

"To help your memory," Sherlock said absentmindedly, pinning notes from an arson case to the wall. "You said you wanted to remember the order of the buildings. Repetition in an important part of building up a strong memory."

Hamish scowled.

"Cheer up. If you get it right again we'll go for a walk and pick up some new test tubes, and I'll buy you a picture book."

Hamish smiled at that and continued to draw, painstakingly tracing the outlines of the buildings, trying to recreate the image of the London skyline that he'd drawn so many times already.

***

"We're learning about the part of the human body today," Hamish's teacher announced. "I'm going to pass out these diagrams, see? I want you to color them in and label any parts you know the names of. Whoever knows the most gets a prize!"

Hamish grinned and wiggled slightly in his seat. His seatmate, Andrew, pulled out his set of colored pencils. "I bet I know the most." He boasted. "My dad is a doctor."

"I bet I know more," Hamish shot back. "My dad is a doctor AND I've got Sherlock."

"Your Sherlock's not a doctor," said a girl on his other side, pushing her glasses up her nose (they were her brother's before they were hers, Hamish noticed, they had obviously been handed down). "You said he was a detective."

"He knows a lot about bodies," Hamish replied, smiling. He knew better than to tell anyone about the toes in the fridge- Mycroft had said it was a bad idea to tell people about those, no matter how cool it was.

The teacher came by with the worksheets. Hamish looked at the little model- he'd seen more accurate ones it Sherlock's books- and picked up his red marker.

His friends colored alongside him.

"Why'd you write 'Billy' by the head?" The girl with the glasses asked after a while. Hamish looked down as his own crooked letters and frowned.

"Well we've got one in the flat, and that's what Sherlock calls it," he said. "That's it's name."

She frowned but turned back to her own drawing.

Hamish did end up knowing more body parts than anyone else- his teacher was impressed that he knew about ribcages and femurs and the patella, but she said it was odd that he'd colored the whole thing red. Hamish just shrugged.

***

"Tell me why you think that."

Hamish pulled the ratty blue dressing gown closer around his shoulders, curling up in the red armchair.

"She's got pictures of her kids on her desk, and she looks at them all the time. And sometimes when some of the kids are rude and it makes her sad she'll pick them up and sort of touch the frames, like they make her feel better."

Sherlock nodded. "You're getting more observant," he noted with pride. "I think you're right, that she has grown children that she misses. But how do you know the pictures are actually of her children?"

Hamish smiled cheekily. "She told me. I asked her last week."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock complained. "It's often wise to try and gain as much information as you can without directly asking."

Hamish scowled back. "I was already sure. I just asked for conf- for confer- what's that word?"

"Confirmation."

"Yes." Hamish sat back in the armchair as tried to press his hands together like Sherlock did. "Confirmation."

***

"I hate counting by two's," Andrew whispered to Hamish in the middle of maths class. "Why can't we just count normally?"

"Sherlock says it's faster," Hamish whispered back.

"Why do we need to count faster?"

Hamish ducked his head slightly as the teacher passed, then turned back towards Andrew. "One time Sherlock was invest- investing- well, he was looking at a case about a woman that was cheating her husband."

"Cheating? Like at cards?"

Hamish wrinkled his nose. "I think so. Anyway, she had a bunch of letters hidden under her bed and he had to count how many there were before she came back. He counted by two's, so it didn't take him as long, and he got out through the window before she came in the door."

"Cool," Andrew whispered fervently. "But why would she need letters if she was cheating at cards?"

"I dunno," Hamish whispered back. "Something about being in love with someone, I think. They were love letters."

"Oh, yuck."

"I know."

Andrew looked back down at his paper. "I guess it's not so bad, then."

***

For Hamish's sixth birthday, Sherlock took him back onto the rooftop of Bart's.

The air was warm, despite the grey sky, and Hamish was kneeling by the ledge to peer down at the street.

Sherlock looked around, feeling the wind brush through his curly hair and tug the edges of his blue scarf. London spread out from him in all directions, throbbing with life, filled with rushing people and cars. It was different in the daytime. He'd been up here countless times at night, but hardly ever when the sun was up. It was his treat to Hamish- the boy, at age six, had earned the right to climb up to the tops of London's roofs with him again.

Sherlock felt free up here. He remembered falling and part of him missed it- everything had been so clear, so fast. The wind had stung his eyes and made him tear up, his coat had been blown up, dragging on his shoulders, his arms and legs had flailed hopelessly, seeking purchase even as his mind assured them that there was none to be had.

Falling, he had been at peace. On the rooftop he had been whirring, buzzing, trying to fight against Moriarty. On the ground he had been running, breathless, trying to ignore the sound of his best friend falling to pieces. But falling- falling was a beautiful thing.

If he ever could chose how he were to die- truly die- he would fall again.

But today was not the day for such a thing. Hamish was still peering down at the street and he needed Sherlock- to teach him, to care for him. The boy was extremely bright, and as Sherlock learned to let his emotions make their quiet appearances Hamish had followed suit. He was happier now- both of them were.

There had been cases for Sherlock and a smattering of unorganized lessons for Hamish. The detective had solved his crimes, the boy had gone to school, Mycroft hadn't been meddling and it was Hamish's birthday. Sherlock felt a feeling of ease settle along the lines of his shoulders and he let it come.

"I've got your drawings here," Sherlock announced after the boy had run all over the rooftop to look at the street. "Would you like to compare them to the real skyline?"

Hamish rushed over. "I didn't know you had them!" He cried. His eyes were bright and he looked happy.

 _John_ , Sherlock thought. _You would love to see him like this. He looks like you, after a good case. Am I doing well? Am I doing the right thing?_

Hamish was tugging on his arm. "Let me see," he pleaded. "I've been drawing it for so long, I want to see if it matches up to the real thing."

Personally, Sherlock thought the boy's drawings were very good. His hands and eyes were steadier than most children's his age- he could draw things with almost startling accuracy.

He pulled the random scraps of paper out of his coat pocket and carried the over to the ledge, where he laid them out one by one. There was no breeze- he knew they wouldn't blow away.

"Pick the best one," he told Hamish. "These are all from your memory- pick the best one and we'll thrown the rest of the edge, see how long it takes them to reach the street."

And Hamish had grinned and pored over his sketches, picking one scrawled on a sheet of notebook paper and throwing the rest into the air with a shout of laughter. And he and Sherlock had watched them as they drifted gently to the street, falling slowly and lazily through the warm gray air.


End file.
